Samuel 19: In Writing

Sit in secret. Close the door.

Brood with fist clenched

ready to spear each fear

only for it to slip into the shadows.

Outside,  the night stalks.

Check the sleeping shapes of your children
So silent, they could be simulacra
bodies yielding beneath your touch.
Study their stirs like tea leaves.

The wind shrieks unintelligible

propheciesm as the floor flees

before your feet, and you teeter

at the edge of the sudden pit.