The moon drips wax where shadows creep,
Ariana hums in tunnels deep.
Her voice, a thread of silver woe,
Pulls the ghosts that dance below.
Her fingertips, like brittle glass,
Trace the echoes that will not pass.
A hollow waltz, a breath too thin,
She sways where daylight can’t begin.
Her laughter cracks like weathered bone,
A melody not quite her own.
The walls, they listen, walls, they grin,
Swallowing secrets whispered in.
She steps on dreams long left to rot,
A lover’s name? She quite forgot.
Her shadow lags, her pulse unwinds—
Ariana walks between the lines.