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Whispers crawl through dust-thick air,

Where love was masked by funeral glare.

She sang of warmth, then turned to flame,

A mother’s smile—deceit by name.

Crowned in chains, a bridal queen,

Bathing rooms in crimson sheen.

Concrete roots beneath the rose,

Feeding silence—no one knows.

House of echoes, cellar deep,

Where the blind and dreaming sleep.

No prayers reached the dirt-stained floor,

Only echoes—and evermore.

No light , no sun, no sleep,

A home of bones, where shadows weep.

Each brick a vow, each nail a lie,

Their names erased beneath the sky.

Draped in lace and hunger’s grace,

He carved new hymns in flesh and face.

She bore the blade, the twisted role—

The matron demon of that hole.

Blood beneath the garden grows,

Roots that know what no one knows.

The laughing mask, the wedding dress,

A theatre soaked in death’s caress.

She watched through velvet curtains drawn,

He built the tomb from dusk till dawn.

A throne of rust, a crib of lies—

They fed on trust, they drank the cries.

Whispers crawl through cold decay,

Ghostly cries that fade away.

Blood seeps slow through earthen crust,

The house consumes in dust and rust.