Beneath the lights of Paris fair,
I chased the dead through stale air.
Not ghosts with chains or banshee cries—
just bones that watched with hollow eyes.
The walls were stacked, precise and grim,
like someone sang a requiem
in vertebrae and finger bones—
a gothic hymn of buried tones.
I walked with care. I whispered names.
The silence curled around my frame.
Each step a question: Who were you?
Each skull a relic I once knew.
The dust was thick. The ceilings low.
The past pressed close, refused to go.
And something in me felt it too—
a chill that history always knew.
You’d think I’d fear it—fleshless grace.
But horror’s just a kind of place.
A library with bones for shelves,
where we can read not just themselves,
but what we are beneath the skin—
the ruin carved from deep within.