This is Not My Bed

Nox Assembly

gothic cabaret, folk-rock, operatic nightmare waltz

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V5.5

I woke before my body did,
before my hands were mine;
the ceiling leaned too close to me,
the walls forgot their lines.

My tongue lay still as silver,
my lungs refused the air;
and something in the corner
was learning I was there.

The clock forgot its counting,
the door forgot the hall;
the air above my open mouth
grew heavy, black, and tall.

And somewhere in the silence,
where the waking world had bled,
I heard the dark lean closer
to the room around my bed.

This is not my bedroom,
this is not my bed;
something old is breathing
in the rafters of my head.

This is not my bedroom,
this is not my bed;
there are fingers in the darkness
and a weight above my chest.

First it was only shadow,
a stain the lamp forgot;
a man-shaped piece of midnight
where the moon should not have stopped.

He lengthened by the bureau,
he gathered at the chair;
he did not need a mouth to grin,
I felt it in the air.

The clock forgot its counting,
the door forgot the hall;
the air above my open mouth
grew heavy, black, and tall.

And somewhere in the silence,
where the waking world had bled,
I heard the dark lean closer
to the room around my bed.

This is not my bedroom,
this is not my bed;
something old is breathing
in the rafters of my head.

This is not my bedroom,
this is not my bed;
there are fingers in the darkness
and a weight above my chest.

Then came the brim above him,
the crown without a face;
the room grew very ancient
when the Hat Man took his place.

He stood there like a verdict,
he stood there like a priest;
as if my fear had summoned him,
as if my breath were feast.

Like Fuseli’s dream gothic
painting nightmare on the breast;
Mara rode the sleeping ribs
and fed where women pressed.

In Japan, kanashibari
binds the body to the dread;
in Mexico, the shadow waits
beside the haunted bed.

Old hags are in the doorway,
incubi are at their prayer;
every age has named him, silent
As they found him waiting there.

This is not my bedroom,
this is not my bed;
something old is breathing
in the rafters of my head.

This is not my bedroom,
this is not my bed;
there are fingers in the darkness
and a weight above my chest.

But dread becomes familiar
when it visits every night;
a monster loses majesty
With each repeated fright.

I learned the shape of stillness,
I learned the taste of stone;
I learned that I had corridors
That he had never known.

So come then, brim and shadow,
come closer if you dare;
you thought you found a body,
you found a house of darkened stairs.

You wanted one small terror,
one sleeper to consume;
but I have been collecting dark
in every locked-up room.

This is not my bedroom,
this is not my bed;
this is where I keep the things
that embrace the dark and dead.

There is a room beneath the room,
a dark beneath the dark;
if you came to taste my terror,
Then you may choke upon this heart.

This is not my bedroom,
this is not my bed;
this is where the dark comes home
and kneels beside my head.

this is where the dark comes home

and kneels beside my head.

3011/7500

I woke before my body did, before my hands were mine; the ceiling leaned too close to me, the walls forgot their lines. My tongue lay still as silver, my lungs refused the air; and something in the corner was learning I was there. The clock forgot its counting, the door forgot the hall; the air above my open mouth grew heavy, black, and tall. And somewhere in the silence, where the waking world had bled, I heard the dark lean closer to the room around my bed. This is not my bedroom, this is not my bed; something old is breathing in the rafters of my head. This is not my bedroom, this is not my bed; there are fingers in the darkness and a weight above my chest. First it was only shadow, a stain the lamp forgot; a man-shaped piece of midnight where the moon should not have stopped. He lengthened by the bureau, he gathered at the chair; he did not need a mouth to grin, I felt it in the air. The clock forgot its counting, the door forgot the hall; the air above my open mouth grew heavy, black, and tall. And somewhere in the silence, where the waking world had bled, I heard the dark lean closer to the room around my bed. This is not my bedroom, this is not my bed; something old is breathing in the rafters of my head. This is not my bedroom, this is not my bed; there are fingers in the darkness and a weight above my chest. Then came the brim above him, the crown without a face; the room grew very ancient when the Hat Man took his place. He stood there like a verdict, he stood there like a priest; as if my fear had summoned him, as if my breath were feast. Like Fuseli’s dream gothic painting nightmare on the breast; Mara rode the sleeping ribs and fed where women pressed. In Japan, kanashibari binds the body to the dread; in Mexico, the shadow waits beside the haunted bed. Old hags are in the doorway, incubi are at their prayer; every age has named him, silent As they found him waiting there. This is not my bedroom, this is not my bed; something old is breathing in the rafters of my head. This is not my bedroom, this is not my bed; there are fingers in the darkness and a weight above my chest. But dread becomes familiar when it visits every night; a monster loses majesty With each repeated fright. I learned the shape of stillness, I learned the taste of stone; I learned that I had corridors That he had never known. So come then, brim and shadow, come closer if you dare; you thought you found a body, you found a house of darkened stairs. You wanted one small terror, one sleeper to consume; but I have been collecting dark in every locked-up room. This is not my bedroom, this is not my bed; this is where I keep the things that embrace the dark and dead. There is a room beneath the room, a dark beneath the dark; if you came to taste my terror, Then you may choke upon this heart. This is not my bedroom, this is not my bed; this is where the dark comes home and kneels beside my head. this is where the dark comes home and kneels beside my head.

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