Questions stir from slumber outside my closet door
The 'what ifs' and 'how coulds' brush fingertips against the wood
I hear doubt feasting on worry
Licking teeth that reflect the moon ~
sharp shards of white ice,
dripping crimson tears
It draws laughter from my butterflies ~
whispers falling from a trumpet,
secretly subtle yet deafening,
playing audience privately to my panic
Symphony of senses left to trick my brain,
as I beg for them to find sleep again
My back lies flat against the sting of tomorrow...
This door has no handle to hold on to anymore though
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