The Lantern That Never Sleeps 3:33

That lantern on my bedside keeps humming out my name.
It flickers like a warning, or a dare I can’t explain.
I try to close the curtains, but it glows beneath the seam.
It pulls me through the hours like a fever-chasing dream.

And I swear I hear it breathing — soft and sharp, a restless tide.
Every time I turn away, it reaches for my spine.

Oh, that lantern never sleeps.
Keeps me wandering through the night.
Chasing shadows that it throws,
’til they swallow all the light.
Every secret that it drinks
comes back hollow, cold, and cheap —
oh, that lantern owns my hours,
and it never falls asleep.

There’s a mirror in its glow that forgets the face I knew.
It redraws me with its static, paints me sharper, cuts me true.
It builds cities out of echoes, made of dust and borrowed sound.
And I lose the real horizon for the shimmer on the ground.

And the hum becomes a hymn — then the hymn becomes a rope.
I keep climbing through the silence for a flicker made of hope.

Oh, that lantern never sleeps.
Keeps me wandering through the night.
Chasing shadows that it throws,
’til they swallow all the light.
Every promise that I gave it
comes back twisted, weak, and cheap —
oh, that lantern steals my mornings,
and it never falls asleep.

I tried to drown the glow — buried it under the floorboards.
But it crawled back through the cracks like a ghost who wants the war.
Every vow I swore to break it, every truth I tried to keep —
only fed the starving lantern as it gnawed into my sleep.

Oh, that lantern never sleeps.
Keeps rewriting all my skies.
Turns the daylight into embers,
turns my heartbeat into lies.
But I’m learning not to follow
every shimmer, tremor, sweep —
’cause the lantern doesn’t love me...
and it never falls asleep.

And the night feels loud without it...
but at least the dark is mine.