OUR STORY ENDS WHERE SHADOWS FOLD

Our story ends where shadows fold:

Where the moon bleeds 

And silence drapes itself over broken windows.

Within words we never spoke and promises that cracked

Collapsing the reality.

Time bends and fractures like a shattered mirror.

The stars retreat,

And in that infinite dark,

All that remains, is the echo of a story

That never truly belonged to the light.

We are echoes,

Bound to the marrow of the dark,

Our words stitched into the void

Like prayers no god will ever hear.

The shadows fold, and fold again,

Until nothing moves 

But the memory of motion.

©Diana Mistera 

DECAY IS A KIND OF DEVOTION

 Whispers like silent screams

around a decay that never ends

The walls remember what the air forgets,

ghosts of breath caught in the dust

and mirrors dream of faces long gone. 

prayers that turned to ash mid-breath.

Time limps through the corridors,

dragging chains of memory and ruin.

peeling itself from the bones of the world.

Every shadow hums a name

no mouth can bear to speak. 

Portraits weep behind their frames,

their eyes aflame with endless dusk

The air tastes of sorrow and dust,

The moon hangs like an open wound,

dripping silver into the cracks of stone,

while memories crawl through the dark,

their fingers made of rust and regret.

In the quiet, something stirs

not life, not death, but the echo between them,

a song too faint to hear,

too loud to ignore

perception fails where truth begins.

© Diana Mistera 

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