Poetry

107.

Sometimes
it comes at night,
out of the dark
like a desperate light.
Fangs and claws are always implied,
but one never sees them glint –
they just hear it sigh.
These shadows are all
our monsters.
Waiting under the bed, or hiding
in the cupboard,
hoping that we venture
into the bathroom
where it will strike.
The eyelids trap it as well as anything,
so shut them tight
and breathe quiet
against the void.
When one is silent, they might hear
it speak for a moment.
“I am lonely,” it says, “and we
haven’t talked in a while.”
That ravenous brain, it moves your maw,
and at last it is time
to think in a pause.
No rushing, no delaying, just
sitting.
Breathing.
Thinking.
Being.
This pause be not the paws of a monster –
take the stillness of the dark
as a banner
and march into your future.

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