There is a space between sleep and the world,
where shadows come to life.
In the cocoon of the dawning night,
old whispers come to heavy ears,
bright and teasing.
Liminal and sublime,
there is no gravity here.
Only the seeds of hopes -
and the ghost of old fears.
To navigate these waters night on night,
with the sun blotting out the North Star,
is a feat...
But there is no might in dreaming,
nor in waking from the fitful half-sleep to see the spectres of old faces in a painting,
a tangled heap of clothes.
Peeking from behind the cracked door.
No shame in wanting,
in longing for the times before.
I miss the monsters under my bed,
and the terrors of childhood.
They never left me weeping for someone who will not come home.
They never left me so utterly alone.
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