10:03 p.m.

She hides beneath my bed and cries too loud
for me too sleep.  I wonder if she’s there
because I dreamed I saw her in a crowd,
a sea of darker eyes and darker hair.
Her sobs waft up, an anti-lullaby
that permeates my heart, my soul, my ears.
And yet, I must be deaf because her cry
is nothing more than silent falling tears.
What’s wrong with me? I ask in whispered prayer.
What dulls the pain that grinds inside my head?
Hello?  Hello? My god are you still there?
Are you still hiding underneath my bed?
Pushed back with dusty papers that I keep
all filled with poems written in my sleep.

Leave a Reply