Whispers in the Wall

In the womb of stone, where echoes gnaw,
She stands, a shadow, against the maw,
Walls pulse, like a heart, with a rhythm of dread,
Whispering secrets of the long-dead.

Fingers of dust claw, like spiders at night,
As the air thickens, stealing the light.
Breath turns to water, heavy and cold,
With each passing moment, the darkness unfolds.

Cracks in the plaster, like veins of despair,
Pulse with a hunger, a chill in the air.
The floorboards creak tales of the lost and the damned,
While phantoms of anguish weave threads of the damned.

The ceiling descends, a guillotine's grin,
Shadows converge, whispering sins,
“Remember the choices that led you to this?”
Each memory sharp, like a venomous kiss.

She screams, but the sound is swallowed by stone,
In this prison of silence, she’s utterly alone.
Cloaked in the fabric of fear’s tight embrace,
Time folds and warps, leaving no trace.

Her heartbeat, a drum, echoes through night,
Pounding with fury, a desperate fight.
Walls close in tighter, a vice made of dread,
Constricting her thoughts, filling her head.

In this coffin of memories, she finds no reprieve,
Only the whispers that beckon to grieve.
“Never escape,” they chant, “your fate is our game,
In the dark of your mind, we’ll always remain.”

So she dances with phantoms, in shadows so grim,
In the claustrophobic grip of her terror’s own hymn.
And long after she’s gone, the whispers will call,
For in the depths of her soul, she’s forever the wall.