Although I can't see it, I know it's there. I can feel it and hear it when I wake up dry-tongued in the middle of the night. Something hovering by the ceiling, noisy and annoying, blows hot air directly in my face.
The Phantom of Winter Nights
Sporadic banter,
Full of dry taunts,
Awakens me
During the witching hours.
A blast of heated breathe,
Enough to rob the moisture
From my skin,
Spews through sharp fangs.
I curse the poltergeist
And his exasperating monologue,
Until the torture ceases
And dead silence lulls me back to sleep.
© 2010 Photo and Poem by Rose Marie Boyd
