Something quiet sleeps—creeps and sleeps—creeps
soundless as a fuse—oh, I can’t go to sleep. Sleeps
with eyes wide open, it does—far away it looks in slumber.
Creeps me the hell out. Can’t sleep. I’m wrapped up
in a twilight tinted corner, not a peep—white moonlight
falls across the bed—lazy laying on the blankets,
inching closer to the toes upon my feet.
And the thing that creeps without a peep is
everything in this room. Thick and present, and heavy
on my chest—in the corner, I pull my feet beneath the sheets.
I shudder.
Its eyes—they peek past everything while it sleeps.
They twitch round and peek as I hug my knees and weep.
Everything is naked, struck with moonlight, grey and bright—
it creeps, and creeps, and peeks inside and knows everything in sight.
The door, I know, is locked. I weep.
And out the window is silver light forever. It creeps in its sleep
though it looks dead—its eyes lay open as it peeks.
It peeks at everything—everything!—without a peep.
“Good God,” I say and lay down.
“Oh, God,” I say—and pull from my feet, above my head, the sheets.
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