In the dead of night, under the spell of sleep’s deceit,
I wake entombed in my own sheets, my heart skipping beats.
Shadows creep, a silent dance across the ceiling lies,
a weight descends, faceless dread that blackens all the skies.
There’s a presence here, a pressure that no light can pierce,
heavy on my chest, its gaze through the darkness veers.
Trapped in this bed, my body bound by unseen chains,
screaming in the silence, the terror in my veins.
I’m locked in a moment where nightmares dwell,
in the grip of a specter, a private hell.
Each breath a struggle, every whisper a plea,
when shadows speak, there’s no setting me free.
As the night drags on, my sanity starts to fray,
each tick of the clock louder, as shadows begin to sway.
Waiting for dawn, for the light to break their hold,
but the darkness is a cycle, ruthless and cold.
And in that thin line between sleep and the dawn,
I find my fears not gone but withdrawn.
The morning may wipe my tears away,
but the night’s always near, and in shadows, it’ll stay.
So here I lay in the aftermath, the echoes of the night,
holding onto the calm, knowing it’s just respite.
For as the world turns, and shadows grow tall,
I brace for the silence, for the nightfall, for the call.