“dungeon”

Beneath the world where lanterns die,  
Where moss and cold ambition lie,  
A stony mouth, a breathless gate,  
The dungeon waits with silent weight.

Its walls are thick with ancient dread,  
A tapestry of iron thread  
That weaves the moans of years gone by—  
Faint whispers no one can deny.

A torch’s flame, a trembling hand  
Reveals the marks no light had planned:  
Names etched by hope, or fear, or spite,  
Still clinging to the walls at night.

Chains clink in memory’s hollow hall,  
Drip, drip, the echo’s mournful call.  
Yet spider silk, a silver seam,  
Catches a shard of hope, a dream.

And though the stone and shadow reign,  
Far overhead the sun breaks plain;  
For every dungeon, dark and cold,  
Hides tales of courage—quiet, bold.

So deep below the world of light,  
Within the heart of ancient night,  
Both shadowed fear and hope belong—  
A silent dungeon’s silent song.

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