THE SLEEPING HOUSE BY FIONA CUMMINGS

The sleeping house

By Fiona cummings

The house is a sleep

I have to creep

Not wanting the floorboards to creak

 I hear my breath

Every step

Each door I open

Are like words spoken

Downstairs I sneak

Need something to eat

I try to resist

But the biscuit barrel is calling

I have a cup of tea

What is wrong with me

I’m so sleepy

But can’t seem to sleep

Even my dogs don’t peep

I gently close their door

 And I still hear them snore

Like two drunk old men

I put words from my pen

Or fingers to the keys

In the bitter breaze

Stolen by thieves

My sleep pattern has flown from the window

So I talk to my soul

As the curtains are closed

My house is so cold

But my thoughts are bold

So many stories to be told

Poetry by the buckets

Shoving wrappers in my dressing gown pockets

Feeling for the sockets

To charge my computer

The draft of the winter

Chills me to the bone

But these words I must release

Then perhaps I will sleep

They say drink hot milk

Well that won’t stop me or my thoughts

I will still think

Though may be in short

Then I have a nightmare

I wake up to stare

But there is nothing there

And I’m reminded I see darkness day and night

That is why they say I can’t sleep

As my body clock is stuffed

So I wake up

And words appear

To reach all who are in the same boat

Far and near

 

© Fiona Cummings