The Shining

The Shining

Beneath the frosted veil of winter’s breath the Overlook looms,
A grand, ivy‑clad ruin sat on a platform of white,
Its windows a faceted crown of coloured silence,
A cage for nothing but the beating of a desolate heart.

Sir Jack – a bon vivant of fame, yet a man in misalliance,
Sees in the foyer’s grand programme the drape he must unspend,
His thoughts dribble like rent dust through the cellar’s shadows,
And he still realises the subtle hunger in his own behaviour.

Danny, small and resolute, feels the east wind of the otherworld,
A ghostly whisper where the hearth’s fire should be bright;
Into his seared mind the shining crawls like a cold thaw,
A frosted promise that fate is not merely favourite but fated.

Wendy, the healer of whispers, hoards love like old candles,
Her thoughts pooling on a room two‑hundred‑thirty‑seven,
Amid the silent roars of a phantom legacy,
She trusts the fragile rhythm of her own heartbeat.

The last chapter comes in the whisper of elevator’s lift,
Glimpsed by eyes that have seen more halls of pain,
Only the fire who never shelves a fear in the night’s corridor,
Leaves the poem on a crescendo, quiet light after dark steamed doors,
A reminder that even in a favourite shame, a soul can still realise.