When I was small


sleep came easier.
drifting into serenity
was a flowing thing.

my father would
tuck me in
and my mind
would fade away
at his whispering will.

before he mounted the stairs
I would stare, claimed
as curtain patterns shifted
from lilac and lace
to sinister faces and goblins’ frames.

he eased them from thought,
tucked in my wandering mind,
as serenity washed over.

sleep came easier
when I was small
now my mind and frame,
restless in the shadows,
are claimed.

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