I rise in war with walls held tight, or built from pillows late at night. Both strong and soft, I serve the same, a place of shelter is my aim.

That which leads to spillways, half a strike's score, away from alleyways, otherwise Penniwise.

Silent guardians that chase away shadows, casting stories on walls. They stand tall in corners, their glow a warm whisper in the night.

So many types of me to choose from, you may get choice paralysis. Whichever you pick our smell is quite gruesome, and good luck pooping without butt dialysis.

I sleep inside unfinished dreams, pressed between the printed scenes. No voice, no ink, yet still I guide, what am I that waits inside?