Isn't it so...
mind to hold nothing to keep
when shadows turn to dark
academia's requiem-maestria

midnight's tongue of blasphemies
when fingers dance on flesh
in the absence of dawn

with a scent of tragedy
as the shadows play symphony
softly winds in atrium's cry

as the ghosts of our genius
leads us astray to pages
rarely read, of requiem-maestria
...isn't it so