Hall of Portraits

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History is etched into these crumbling walls,

the rattling murmurs of forgotten ages calls.


A hall of rulers abandoned by time,

portraits of skeletons riddled with dark secrets.

A legacy of bloodshed festering with grime,

on the frozen hearts of tyrannical crests.


The sweet aroma of torment still lingers,

such horrible crimes issued from royal fingers.


Whispers of the enslaved still haunt the halls,

cries for help written in tattered scrawls.

In the hall of portraits, terror never fades,

for the echoes of hollow footsteps still sing from the grave.


Tragic memoirs corrode and replay,

the bloody stains of history are here to stay.

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