Spectral Garden
In wilted gardens, flowers weep,
Their vibrance lost, a desolate keep.
No water, sunlight, nor respite,
A mournful dirge in depths of night.
A sable quill sketches a knight,
Its ink a blight, a dismal sight.
A creeping scourge, its tread profound,
Withers’ life leaving barren ground.
Like a raven’s quill, it paints decay,
A haunting omen, holding sway.
The garden’s soul, once vibrant, bright,
Now fades to dust, devoid of light.
Oh, cruel jest, a whimsy’s scorn,
To watch the garden’s petals mourn.
In this ethereal, haunting play,
Life’s tapestry unravels, held at bay.
Where beauty once danced in vibrant hues,
Now only shadows and despair infuse.
Spectral garden, a lyric’s lament,
A whimsical tale of hearts bereft.
