A Chapter.

An eerie silence,
No creaking of doors,
Or the smell of rotting wood,
Just a sinister stillness.
An aura of something dark,
The hanged frame who told us million stories,
The portrait of a spectral, menacing face,
With a puffed chest and darkened irises, 
Wouldn't be the expectant,
Of a saving grace.
The gentle wife,
Radiating kindness with a soft smile,
Grasping his hand like a tether,
Wouldn't be expected,
To unleash the unforeseen carnage,
Fueled by anger and self preservation.
It was the sun and the moon,
Separated by the stars in between,
It was the chaos and the desperation,
Of the two unpredicted lovers.
A story like Orpheus and Eurydice.
Pyramus and Thisbe.
Tristian and Isolde.
Remembered along the centuries,
Would this be another chapter worth recalling?