Beneath two surreal moons, the glimmers froze the night,
tiny sentinels in the obsidian sea,
flickering cold whispers of long-lost lullabies.

There is joy, they say,
delicatelace trimmed and set by the invisible hands,
yet echoes follow like forgotten dreams of burnished gold,
wrapped tightly within indices of scripted regrets.

Touch a star, they plead, their eyes mere voids,
behold the glimmer twine in your sleep-dampened rainfall,
where innocence meets the clangor of eldritch tunes,
forever dissonant amid this sleep of decay.