(I Am Almost Asleep)

The creak of wood,
The groaning waves
Of muffled creeping,
The shades of gothic doom,

Something’s at my door,
my bedroom door
(I am almost asleep).

I can hear the gentle hiss
Of a dying microphone,
The pant of a hungry guard dog,
The quiet violence of humming,

The voices of children
Running across foggy moors,
Whistles skirting the grass
As one of them falls.

I feel the fear
And the longing to melt
into camoflaged dreams,

Something’s at my door,
My bedroom door
(I am almost asleep).

Poetry.net

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