In the cradle of our bustling silence,
the clocks tick backward,
syncing with the rhythms of
unspoken truths and spoken lies.
Sing, oh cradle, sing not lullabies,
but your bittersweet symphonies:
A chair that never sat,
a throne of cardboard dreams.
Harmony, they say, is dissonance well disguised,
like an artist perfecting the frown
on a canvas of marketing brochures.
Follow the singsong path to clarity:
Echo of the Unheard Shadow of the Mirthless