Some nights you wake up when it’s still dark
to bat at the breath in your ear.
You beckon into the shadows, so stark,
but you cannot hear
the sound that enticed you to hark.

You turn over onto your side,
making an attempt to hide
from the sounds and sights of the night,
but it is an already lost fight.

So close by is the turning of a bolt,
so dangerous and frightening is the jolt
that runs down your back with the slimy, dead hand,
you cover your eyes and wish it to end.

The window is latched,
but the bones pop and the paint now scratched,
so the breeze carries your blanket off of your back.
The glass is open just a crack,
but something crawls closer, really to hack.

Long and morphed are the fingerprints,
but are lost in the blitz
of stained and runny, ******, walls,
and away he crawls.