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Michael Solc Jan 2013
Quickly and quietly they come in the night,
slithering, sliding into your room,
under your covers and out of sight.

Soft, scaly skin cold to the touch,
whispering "dear, you mustn't scream much".

Long pointed fingers wrap 'round your head,
they've found you cozy in blankets,
and now wait to be fed.

Can you hear the scuttle of claws in the hall?
Coming to find you,
coming to maul?

Clicking claws and soft little hands that are cold to the touch,
they’re whispering, "fear, now isn't it such?"

Dark little voices in a dark little room,
so often a haven,
now laden with doom.

Eyes shining coldly in the blackness you see,
fangs dripping with hunger
as they shiver with glee.

Dozens all over, waiting their turn,
they've come for your tears,
for your dreading they yearn.

Quickly and quietly they come with delight,
but it's all just a dream
so sweetheart, goodnight.

— The End —