In the embrace of the midnight sun,
where whispers become a cacophony of silence,
we sing to the shadows beneath the bed.
Lull yours, alas, don't cradle their forgotten screams.
Somewhere, wrapped in the velvet of absurdity,
a clock ticks backwards, mocking our forwards plight.
Dreams are sold in jars, labeled with irony,
'Guaranteed to Keep You Awake' — a phantom's joke.
So, lie down in the cradle of electric hums,
hear the lullabies dance through the wires,
a serenade of hidden truths and winking lies.
Do you hear the silent screams, too?