The Last Manuscript

The Last Manuscript

In twilight’s grasp where shadows creep,
Upon the desk where secrets sleep,
A tome of whispers, bound in black,
With hollow eyes that call me back.

The candle flickers, trembling weak,
As phantom fingers stroke my cheek,
The air is thick with echoed woe,
A cursed ink that still must flow.

The book exhales, a sigh of doom,
Spirits rise in ghostly plume,
Their hollow laughter chills my veins,
A chorus sung in death’s refrain.

Each letter carved in sorrow’s tongue,
A tale of lives undone, unsung,
Pages drenched in eldritch lore,
A fate inscribed forevermore.

I trace the words, my hands betray,
A willing pawn, a mind astray,
The quill now moves by unseen hand,
To weave my soul in cursed strands.

The final script, the last decree,
A name now lost—belonged to me.
The book now shuts, the voices fade,
Another shade the ink has made.
@poembyselly

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