An ambiance once close, permeating the halls,
Empty as what past once rang true,
As everything else is swallowed up by the walls,
Madness is the only thing to get through.

f**kin hate when people do that

Emergent were they, of silver and plume, to pick up fine quill and their tales exhume.

The narrator looks on at those with swift hand, artistic skill beyond their words bland,
Never could they compete with such scribblings, so instead Skul's skill they will simply be witnessing.

Skeleblook greeted nobody in particular, the call of the wind echoing perpendicular. They could almost hear the word "greetings" gaining faint passage on the breeze