It started like morning, a soft golden thread,
A melody drifting where angels might tread.
The notes were like sunlight through leaves on the floor,
A tune that felt ancient, and nothing felt more.
It carried through stillness, it danced through the air,
Each sound was a promise, each silence a prayer.
A lullaby woven from starlight and breath,
So tender it lulled even sorrow to death.
But then came a tremor—so slight, so unsure,
A dissonant ripple that curdled the pure.
One note fell sideways, then faltered, then cried,
As if something sacred had twisted inside.
Harmonies tangled, like vines in the throat,
The sweetness now cloying, each lyric a coat.
For something far colder that crept from below,
A beauty deformed by the need not to show.
The song still remembered the shape it once wore,
But now it rang hollow, a locked, rusted door.
It played itself backward, then shattered apart,
A haunting, a hunger, the echo of art.
And still it keeps playing in corners, in sleep,
A song once so lovely, now buried too deep.
A tune you once trusted, now twisted and wild,
The voice of a nightmare that first sang you mild.
This poem is about a beautiful lullaby becoming twisted over time