The very twisted thought had visited my dreamland.
A story, as foretold, by holding on to garland.
Cathedral of the town, which stands atop the hill,
Will be the murder hall, that takes away the will…
And living thus had perished, whilst grabbing onto faith,
Which seamlessly had vanished, on peril not so great
The souls that wonder staircase, at times crawl to the crack
And having slimming chances of taking freedom back
The passers by are sometimes
Asked for a little lie
A token of the freedom
In small piece of the night
The soul, like nightly beggar
Is pleading for 5 ro
That in the chance if given
Will let the spirit go.
Since centuries ago
There had been faint old story
That only with 5 ro
You might let go of worry.

you can read the story on Inkitt: Cathedral