On the edge of a cliff where the wild winds wail,
Stood an old lighthouse, weathered and pale.
Its light was extinguished many years past,
But the stories it held were meant to outlast.
The villagers whispered of screams in the night,
That rose with the waves and fled with first light.
None dared to venture, though drawn by the sound,
For those who had entered were never found.
A sailor once claimed, with his last breath,
That the tower was cursed, a portal to death.
The keeper, they said, had a terrible greed,
And fed the lighthouse with souls it would need.
But one stormy eve, when the sea turned to ink,
A wanderer came, compelled by the brink.
With a lantern in hand and resolve in her heart,
She vowed to uncover the silence’s dark art.
The door creaked open with an ominous moan,
Each step she climbed felt less her own.
The walls whispered secrets, the air grew thick,
Her lantern flickered; the shadows played tricks.
At the top of the tower, the truth was revealed,
A mirror that shimmered but couldn’t be sealed.
It showed not her face, but the voids of the dead,
Their mouths wide open in screams left unsaid.
The silence was not absence, but terror suppressed,
A symphony of anguish forever repressed.
The wanderer screamed, but no sound was heard,
Her voice joined the silence, her image transferred.
Now the lighthouse stands with its ominous glow,
Its keeper replaced, as the story will show.
The wanderer waits, her lantern in hand,
Guiding new souls to the cursed strand.
So beware the old lighthouse when the winds cry,
For silence can scream louder than the sky.