Needless Things: Ghoulish Skull-ptures

In a crypt where candle shadows twitch then switch, Lie ghoulish skull-ptures, finely stitched and glitched. With jawbones grinned and brows askew, Each one carved from something true.

A thousand skulls, in twisted rows, Some etched with runes, some wearing bows. One smiles wide with silver teeth, Another moans beneath a wreath.

Their sculptor? None dare speak his name— A ghostly hand, a cursed flame. He chisels dusk and shapes the dead, With hollow hearts and dreams unsaid.

A ribcage here, a femur throne, A masterpiece in blood and bone. Each socket gleams with ghastly light, Like stars gone cold in endless night.

Do not mistake this morbid hall For lifeless art upon the wall. They twitch, they leer, they sometimes bite— These skull-ptures wake when waning night.

So heed this rhyme if you should dare To wander where the dead ones stare: They’re more than stone, they’re souls endured— These ghoulish works are never cured. NNN