The patterns shift beneath their gaze,
A restless dance of endless maze.
Ink bleeds from forgotten prayers,
Whispers trapped within thin layers.
Each curve, a memory too sharp to fade,
Drawing them closer to the edge they made.
Staring at the walls, they search for grace,
But find only shadows and a familiar face.
The designs pulse, they can't look away,
For the damned are not lost—they're here to stay.