Isolation

There is no real point behind this poem except the fact that I adore castles and grim things.

Palace walls grew thick with vines,

torn table cloths & cellars bled of their wines.

Once grand halls echoed with the moans of the dead,

The stories laughed into these walls go unsaid.

Only the desolate remains,

A choir of ghosts dragging their chains.

Author's Note

Fun little isolation poem, have at it.