Listen
Spoken version
A recorded reading of “The Head Beneath the Pillow”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
She walked a corridor carved from dreams, where silence hummed a funeral tune— each echo stitched in shadow seams, beneath a weeping yolk of moon. Her heels tapped truths the walls ignored, in lacquered steps too sharp for sleep; behind her trailed a suited void, his gaze a blade too blunt to weep. A head half-buried in the floor spoke nothing—but its eyes implored. A pillow, plump with silent screams, rested where someone once had soared. The eggs lay cracked in time’s dry womb, their innards leached into the dust— a whispered oath, a broken bloom, a cradle soaked in curdled trust. Above, the sphere—unchained remorse— dripped thought by thought in oozing streams, its tether twitching like a horse that bucks inside a dying dream. No exit marked the ashen halls, no clocks to name decay or grace. Just her, the void, and crumbling walls— and time’s last mask: a hollow face.
Lyrics
She walked a corridor carved from dreams, where silence hummed a funeral tune— each echo stitched in shadow seams, beneath a weeping yolk of moon. Her heels tapped truths the walls ignored, in lacquered steps too sharp for sleep; behind her trailed a suited void, his gaze a blade too blunt to weep. A head half-buried in the floor spoke nothing—but its eyes implored. A pillow, plump with silent screams, rested where someone once had soared. The eggs lay cracked in time’s dry womb, their innards leached into the dust— a whispered oath, a broken bloom, a cradle soaked in curdled trust. Above, the sphere—unchained remorse— dripped thought by thought in oozing streams, its tether twitching like a horse that bucks inside a dying dream. No exit marked the ashen halls, no clocks to name decay or grace. Just her, the void, and crumbling walls— and time’s last mask: a hollow face.
No published comments yet.