The silence is loudest in the middle of the night,
When your pallor echoes a deathly white,
An eerie scratch comes from the corner,
The calling card of the dead performer,
You plug your ears to drown the sound
The rising terror knows no bounds,
But the scratching gets louder and closes in,
You dare not move in your quilt coffin,
It’s next to your bed and you feel its breath,
The stench of rotten that comes from death,
A chilling scream from the puppeteer,
It wakes you in the midst of fear,
A desperate second to catch your bearing,
Sitting up confused and staring,
You realise everything is fine,
The nightmare hasn’t won this time.