The nightly shrieking persistently piquing
The urge to evict my uninvited guest like some unpaid tenant
who parties too hard
preventing me sleeping
with his endless weeping and shrieking, pleading
Turn on the lights!
I am afraid! Afraid!
But I am now quite fond
Of my uninvited guest
Who is quite pleasant
until the howling begins.
Each night, I cannot sleep,
And as the world wakes,
And I rise from my bed
as if I, too, am a ghost.
I check the mirror.
I see my face as pallid as that of one who dying,
or freshly deceased.
It is a struggle to move or speak.
This ghost, he is friendly,
He is harmless,
aside from the sleep deprivation he brought.
He is pleasant company
Until night falls,
and then he wails
and cries and moans and shrieks,
For he is afraid of the dark.
But I am a human who needs sleep…
maybe we forget about needs
Of the living once we become ghosts…
Ghosts, you see,
They need no sleep.
But they still feel fear…
Even of silly things: the dark.
But maybe ghosts…
Maybe they see what most beings cannot…
Maybe they see something
far worse than ghosts
where there is no light.
Each time I ask my strange friend,
“what is in the dark that isn’t in the light? What is there to fear of the dark?”
He merely responds with more moaning and sobbing,
And, “Please, please, I cannot!
I cannot say! Just please!
Please, turn on the lights!”