Curse

In the quiet attic of forgotten hours,
A whisper lingers, cold as midnight’s dew—
A curse, like ivy, clings to ancient towers,
Turning laughter into shadows that accrue.

It wears the garb of solemn, solemn vows,
A promise broken ’neath a waning moon;
Each sigh a thread, each tear a furrowed brow,
Stitching fate with sorrow’s silver loom.

Yet hope, a stubborn rose, pushes through stone,
Its petals bright against the sable night;
For even curses, when the dawn has shone,
May fade to mist beneath the rising light.