A maiden who never sleeps

She fell before the morning light,

A crimson secret veiled in night.

Hands that once wove dreams of gold

Now lie cold, their story untold.

No grave could claim her restless breath,

No time could silence her stolen death.

Her spirit rises, soft and near,

A whisper carried on fear’s veneer.

Through shadowed halls and broken doors,

She wanders, tethered to the floors.

Her eyes, like lanterns, pierce the gloom,

A herald of the killers’ doom.

Each step she takes is stitched in dread,

A pulse of sorrow where blood was shed.

Her laughter lingers, hollow, thin,

A warning of the wrath within.

She drifts through dreams and waking hours,

Turning their pride into withering flowers.

Every lie they whispered, every hand that struck,

Returns to them in her spectral muck.

No rest awaits her, no peace, no night,

Only vengeance carved from grief and fright.

The maiden lost to mortal sin

Now haunts the hearts of those who did her in.

And though she cannot touch the sun,

Her haunting has only just begun.

A spirit bound to mortal pain,

Forever walking in endless rain.