Each night, when the light is out
and the doors are closed,
when all but one give to slumber;
the cupboard door hangs
just ajar.
I watch it from across the room,
the shadows inside
harbouring a secret that I know
must never escape that door
just ajar.
A wisp of silence sneaking forth,
snaking hither in
velvet quiet across my ears and mouth,
smothers me from that door
just ajar.
It cannot be seen, but I hear its
breath and voice;
as it speaks to me each night,
that thing behind my door
just ajar.