The house has become
Surfeit with shadows
Mom sleeps
Soundly

Can I tell you I'm afraid?
Afraid she won't wake up.
We are told that perfect
Faith casts out fear
~
It isn't my faith that fails
~
I'm afraid she won't know
How much I really love her.

And the darkness pools
Around the floors under our
Heavy antique furniture
~
I believe somewhere on a
Plane of them
There's a fingerprint of their
Craftsman, long dead.
~
There is solice in knowing that
When she finally dies
(And she will)
her
Fingerprints
Will

Be

Left

On

*ME