WHISPERS IN THE DREAM

In the hush between stars, I call your name,

a whisper folded in the wings of sleep.

The sky turns soft 

and beneath a moon that never sleeps, I wander.

Each step recalls a vow.

I reach through clouds of half-forgotten light,

through rooms of dream where laughter used to stay.

My voice dissolves, a moth against the night,

a fragile hope that will not fade away.

If love is real, it hides beyond the sound,

of whispers that bloom like ghosts.

I reach out, but feel the frost there, 

where warmth and faith once grew.

The dream is dead.

Your ghost, perhaps, still hears me plead

in aisles where time decays,

where candlelight forgets to bleed,

and roses suffocate  upon their thorns. 

© Diana Mistera 

SACRED ECHOES

Echoes rise from the hollow stone,

chanting

where shadows kneel in silence.

The ruins breathe with ancient promises,

and every wall remembers

a love bound beyond flesh,

a flame that burns without mercy,

a vow etched in blood and ash.

Two souls torn, yet never apart

A sacred wound that will not close

Devotion beyond decay.

We walk as pilgrims in the dark,

carrying a love that cannot perish.

And, in the echoes of eternity, the vow endures.

© Diana Mistera 

WE WALK ON THE RUINS OF YESTERDAY

We walk on the ruins of yesterday,

beneath cathedrals shattered by silence.

Ghosts bleed from the broken glasses,

their faces carved in crimson rain.

Shadows kneel like fallen saints,

clutching the dust of forgotten vows.

The angels are hollow statues,

their marble wings cracked and stained.

The never forgotten love burns

like a candle drowning in its own wax.

It drips through the corridors of night,

leaving scars on the stones we tread 

and the silence roars where pain screams

We walk with ghosts

through ruins veiled in funeral smoke.

And in the heart of this endless dark,

even hope is a wound that falls apart

and comfort is not 

not even in the midst of the lost and found.

© Diana Mistera 2025

REVERBERATIONS

Nothing seems enough

I dream about you, but I aching for more

and the demon inside is reading the epitaph

to be carved on my tombstone as a mantra.

I keep stumbling on the same patterns

struggling with my ghosts

getting lost all over again

in a heart shaped labyrinth.

Nostalgic, or maybe because the moon was full

I tasted the winter and it followed me at home

and now I walk on thin ice

knowing not

when it will crack under me

nor who will grab me when I'm falling

now that I have let you go.

©Diana Mistera 9.7.2025