In the dead of the night I hear,
whispers made by the shadows near.
I can catch phrases in between the din,
piecing them together feels like a sin.
The language of the shadows may not be for mere
but I can catch their murmurs with my blossoming
Even while I’m hidden under my blanket shivering,
the cacophony of the sounds they make is still echoing,
against the stillness of the night that moves ever so
leaving me with the mutterings of the shadows that
appear so ghostly.
I try to close my eyes and pretend to sleep,
but the shadows know how to make me weep.
With their silent presence that bores down on me,
I feel like my eyes will no longer be able to see,
the light of day I always welcome with glee.
But wait, the strength of their murmurs is starting to
like the distant stars that are becoming unmade.
Their echoes are starting to dwindle in my head,
or maybe because my soul they took from me and now
-The Elusive Scribe 050313-