The Pattern

A wispy strand hangs in the air
It is the recurrence of one
Hung on the dimly lit walls
Of the blackest dungeon.
On the rough ground,
A pool of ink seeps from the mound
Of splintered bones and shards of glass.
Once a room filled with silken folds,
And seductive aromas,
Now an open grave, filled with skeletons.
Naught but one open window,
The bars providing a narrow escape
For the bird with fluttering heart
That beats rapidly with feathered wings.
There is no life in that place,
Yet it draws those who do not seek it.
It claims the weak
Shaking newfound resolve into nothingness.
The repetition, beyond the point of deja vu
I fear the approach of that beast,
I know its footsteps all too well,
And yet here I stand, waiting to be devoured.
Now it is over,
The iron clad gates clang shut,
Reverberating throughout the castle of my mind.
And the spider begins building its web again.