Beneath the silken whisper of night,
The clocks weave webs of forgotten time.
Where luminescent shadows pulse,
A harmony of discord sings its silent song.
Hear now, the symphony of beneficial poisonous noise,
Echoing through the corridors of ephemeral light.
It sings of tempests in teacups,
And the delicate dance of dreams on the edge of oblivion.
Like seasons turning beneath a transient sun,
The world spins in paradoxical grace.
And so we walk, blind but knowing,
The tempus of our shadows carving stories in the dust.