"who is that girl?"
"she's always so glum,"
the books whisper to each other
"she lives here."
"she owns you,"
the papers on the desk murmur.
"she's a child."
"Come here, my child,"
the pillows talk; the sheets wait.
she drops her eyes and enters the room. with her slippers now off,
she slides in the sheets. when her breathing is slow, the books
whisper again:
"she's like home."
the papers murmur,
"no more to do,"
the pillows sigh, and the sheets caress her.
I sift through her dream, untouched by anyone. I watch her grow. I watch her cry, sing, laugh - from my place above her bed. And tonight she's dreaming of whispering books, and murmuring papers. peaceful lips; she really is like home.
-z
*note: exercise in creative writing. Had to adopt a new persona, and the one I chose was a dream-catcher above a girls bed.
