The moonlight peaks through the small gap, between the curtains.

In the still of the night, the waters of the mind are nothing but turbulent.
The child from the past, she weeps so silently; she is audible to those who hear her out-

except I am the only one who hears her cries.

A child with nyctophobia, she leaves the nightlight on to ward the darkness.
And yet- she can not escape it, for it stalks her mind with a bitter sharpness.

A waning moon weeps in the dusty clouds
And a waxing fear, she will fail to shroud.

Pretend- as if nothing haunted her past
You would never know- even if you asked.