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If These Walls Could Talk
The air weighs heavily on my skin
Moisture weighs on my now damp clothes
A faint smell of death is maliciously creeping into my nostrils
In the distance a lone water drop hits the ground
The sound echoes eerily lingering a little too long
Scuttering insects infest every nook and cranny
The walls themselves almost look alive
Their old, decrepit stone skin crawling in every direction
There is only one respite from seemingly endless darkness
A lantern cries and wails as it sways back and forth
Hopelessly burning on borrowed time
Waiting to die
Waiting to die the same death everything does
The air itself feels dead yet smells alive
Only the walls themselves know what they hold
The corridor stretching on and on into the void
Stone chisels and imperfections tell a story of time
Time now long lost to distant memories and bones
As the water droplet’s desperate echo fades
So does any semblance of hope in the air
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