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The Poetry of Nightmares

I have been listening
to you creeping through the house.

I heard you squeeze
in through the window.

I can hear your progress
past the dining table.

I know you brush
against the fridge

pass unaware
by the picture-clothed safe.

If I’m left alive
the motion activated camera
will let me relive
this horror again

and again

and again.

While I cower
beneath the quilt.

I know you are getting closer;
I feel my insides constrict.

I’m here
petrified into silence.

I hear you come in
to my bedroom.

You are one of the wasps
from my nightmares, emerged.

Do you know I’m here?
You make fast work

of finding your prize,
heading over to the window

and flying out
into the sky.

© 2017 Giles L. Turnbull · All rights reserved
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