Beneath a moon that shone blood-red,
Lay an asylum long cold and dead.
Its shattered halls held ghosts of screams,
Echoing faint like distant dreams.
The ivy crept through broken stone,
Whispering secrets the walls had known.
Each crack and crevice a silent cry,
Of souls that linger, afraid to die.
“Come closer,” hissed a voice in the night,
Beckoning softly, cloaked in fright.
Its whispers promised truths untold,
In shadows deep, where the air turned cold.
A traveler paused by the iron gate,
Drawn by whispers, a curious fate.
With lantern low, they ventured inside,
Where fear and folly forever collide.
The walls began to softly groan,
Breathing life into ancient stone.
Words appeared in the peeling paint,
Warnings scrawled by hands too faint.
“Turn back,” they begged, in letters crude,
But curiosity drowned the mood.
The traveler touched a rusted frame,
And felt a spark—a searing flame.
The whispers rose into a scream,
Reality tore like a fragile dream.
Faces formed in the cracked mosaic,
Eyes of sorrow, their pain archaic.
“Stay with us,” the voices pleaded,
“For none escape once they’ve conceded.”
The walls embraced, the lantern dimmed,
And the traveler’s fate was sealed within.
Beneath that moon of ghostly red,
The asylum sighed with the newly dead.
And still it whispers to those who roam,
Seeking the curious to call its own.