What creeps into your bed at night with you
is not the crushing loneliness of loss,
nor can it be the slyly shimmering cause
of light that makes you think that ghosts are true;
by inching closer with a touchless force
it presses up to you as something new,
yet – visible like darkness – coloured through
with too-familiar thoughts of just because…
And it is not the illusion of dreams
nor cruel touch of darker nightmares – it
is Nothing: empty doom, abyss that seems
to swallow midnight in its jaws and eat
at breathing souls or living mind; a myth
which will too soon crush us between its teeth.


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