The Whispering Star

The Whispering Star

(Gothic Narrative Style)

In midnight’s grasp beyond the sphere,
Where silence thrived and none could hear,
A single star began to wake—
Its gleam a wound the void did make.

Not born from light nor heaven’s flame,
No angel knew it, spoke its name.
It shimmered cold, a haunted spark,
A pulse that moved through endless dark.

The wise-men turned their eyes in dread,
For ancient texts had once half-said:
“A star shall rise with voice of none,
And speak in silence what’s undone.”

Its shimmer flickered Morse-like screams—
A stuttered code that shattered dreams.
It watched. It waited. Never slept.
It fed on thoughts the dreamers kept.

A scholar traced its silent arc,
Then vanished in the moonless dark.
His notes remained, with scribbled fears:
“It knows my mind. It whispered near.”

A girl would wake with hollow eyes,
Draw towers crumbled in the skies.
She whispered words in tongues long dead:
"The star has thoughts it hasn’t said."

It moved against all cosmic law,
No orbit held, no force could draw.
Some said it crawled where time was torn—
A beast disguised in stellar form.

Its watchers faded one by one,
Each stared too long, then came undone.
And on each wall where eyes had bled,
That star was drawn in streaks of red.

Then came the night it ceased to burn—
The blackest void, no light’s return.
But in that dark, we heard a sound—
A whisper deep beneath the ground.

Now every child dreams the same,
A voice that softly speaks their name.
And somewhere, just beyond the bar,
It waits… that ancient, whispering star.