February 4, 2014

 

 

Each night I pray

that they will come

and tip-toe on my bed.

And give me solace

like once they did.

But sadly, they are dead.

 

I pray that they will

come to me, with their

deafening scream.

And say ‘me-owwww,

we’re back again’.

But it’s a far off dream.

 

I pray that they will

sit on me, forcing me

to keep still.

Or be my constant shadow;

tripping me endlessly,

when I turn around at will.

 

I pray that they will

think of me, as now

in heaven they reign.

If only the years I had

with them, could come

around again.

 

 

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