Whispers in the Sleep

In the hush of night when shadows creep,

I fall into the arms of sleep.

But something waits beyond the veil—

A breath, a grin, a crawling tale.

The room dissolves to ash and bone,

I dream, but never dream alone.

A lullaby with teeth and claws,

Scrapes softly through subconscious laws.

A hallway grows, too long, too wide,

With doors that breathe on either side.

I knock—but silence knocks me back,

As footsteps echo down the black.

A face I knew—but twisted now,

With hollow eyes and stitched-up brow.

It whispers secrets I once knew,

But now they're warped—and dripping, too.

My hands are gone. My voice won't scream.

I'm sinking deep inside this dream.

A cradle rocked by unseen things,

A choir made of broken wings.

I wake—but not inside my bed.

The walls still crawl. My hands are red.

And in the mirror's smoky seam,

I glimpse the thing that haunts my dream.