As I wrote this footsteps upon the footsteps
fell, I ushered words to my little ones that
it was past the ruination of dreams if there
heads had not headed the times of slumber
as night is for sleep not running around.

But footsteps inevitably fell once again.
Anger feel upon a fathers brow as words now
ignored where sleeping head should have fell.
With tired eyes and the voice, you know the
one that tell those of younger age daddy means
business. And then there was silence once again.

But eyes whispered unto the realms of dream
to be once again woken by footsteps playing
upon the stairs waking others namely me from
my needed dreams. I glanced upon the stairs to see.

Without a murmur I glanced in rooms, and unattended
my first born where they were in slumber so silent I
could only just hear the faint whispers of breath as they
did sleep. then in darkness the footsteps louder than believed.

I awoke in the morning on the top of the stairs, a bruised
rendition of a child's footprint upon my skin bruised
and hollow. My daughter said in a mulled voice that
the child didn't like you watching it in darkness run.

I write this as a father who now has shivers as I write
this piece that the footsteps are within my room,
My wife sleeps my children do, but the footsteps don't
seem so innocent now, and I am not going to look behind me