The yellow papers chuckle as they scatter to the floor

The garish scribble answers wink in grey loop arcs

I guess it’s getting late, I think I’m going mad

The walls are breathing heavy and I press their wooden sides,

But the carpet symbols spin and the ceiling’s closing in

And the only haven space is the space above the bed

Far above the monsters grumbling round their ancient tissue teeth

So I squirrel under the sheets and I mutter something strange

Some silent invocation: something ancient, something real

And the monsters lumber back into their dusty sock lairs

And the room comes ashore from its tossing carpet sea

And I breathe.

I nod.

And fall back into sleep.

The End

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