By Autumn Grace Hartgrove
In the dead of the night, where secrets hide,
Penning tales of sorrow, where my demons bide.
Each word a whispered echo, of a time long past,
Where love is merely shallow, and dreams never last.
Why do I write, such dark and twisted prose?
Maybe because my heart was forged in shadows.
In the depths of night, where the moonlight seldom goes,
My soul finds solace, in the darkest of my woes.
The pages hold my anguish, the ink is my blood,
A reflection of the storm, and the tears that flood.
Each line a broken promise, each verse a silent scream,
A journey through my madness, mere fragments of a dream.
In blackness, I find my truth, where light is but a lie,
In darkness, I reminisce of youth, where memories never die.
A tale of woe and wonder, of pain and fleeting joy,
A symphony of thunder, where silence I destroy
So let the darkness take me, let the monsters guide my pen,
In this realm of broken dreams, where night will never end.
For in the twisted verses, my true self is exposed,
Maybe that’s why I write, such dark and twisted prose?