AshNight1214

Sometimes, in the black of night I awaken for nothing, not even a fright. The unlit ceiling stares down at me And glares at the lack of sleep it can see. But is it my fault that the ghosts can speak? That I’m the only one who hears the floorboards creak Beneath invisible feet as the ghosts spy Discreetly as in the night they fly by? No, I believe I’m the innocent Unless it is upon conviction you’re bent. “To the asylum!” they cry, the poor dears in fright When I have ghosts for tea in the middle of the night When the ghosts haunt my lack of sleep After boredom has long killed my counting sheep.