Night spills ink across the fractured mind,
where echoes rise, unshaped and nameless.
Silence bends, brittle beneath its weight,
shadows pulse with restless hunger.

Thoughts unravel, thin as candle smoke,
drifting where the fevered wind calls.
A hush lingers at the edge of knowing,
a murmur swallowed before it takes shape.

Wake, before the monsters take your name.
Sleep, and they will teach you how to fly.

—T.A.