Genur.art

Beneath cobwebbed eaves of an alleyway’s gloom, Lies a shop of shadows, a collector's tomb. Where lanterns flicker with ghostly light, And whispers of spirits drift through the night. A bell tolls softly as you creak through the door, Into a realm where time’s lost its lore. Shelves sag with volumes, ancient and cursed, Bound in skin, inked with blood and its thirst. Curios gleam with a spectral glow, Skulls with eyes that seem to know. A shrunken head murmurs secrets dark, Next to a dagger that’s left its mark. Glass jars hold hearts that never ceased beating, Petrified fingers, a coven’s last meeting. A tarnished mirror cracked wide, Reflects not your face, but horrors inside. A clock with hands that move in reverse, Counts down to doom, a silent curse. Candles flicker, casting a ghastly scene, Shadows dance with a macabre sheen. An old man appears, with eyes of void, A grin that chills, a joy destroyed. He offers a trinket, cold to the touch, A pendant that promises far too much. You turn to leave, but the door’s disappeared, Replaced by darkness, suffused with fear. His whisper echoes, a final refrain, "Welcome, dear guest, to your eternal domain." And in that shop, where nightmares abide, Your soul joins the relics, forever tied. ((haunting photograph taken with 35mm film), ([multiple short exposures] overlay [long exposure] for spectral tracing effect))