Needless Things: Deathly Vocals

A voice rose up from the marrow of night, carved from silence, sharp as light. It sang of graves and fragile grace, of hollow hearts and time’s embrace.

Each note bled slow, a phantom cry, a hymn for souls too proud to die. The air turned thin, the stars leaned near, to taste the sound of mortal fear.

It wasn’t sorrow, nor pure despair— but something deeper, dark, aware. A melody shaped by love’s remains, a requiem bound in silver chains.

The echoes linger, soft but cold, like whispers through the bones of old. For even angels stop to weep, when deathly vocals sing them to sleep. NNN