=Specters=

All my dreams are kept in a little book
tucked under my bed, where specters tread
so fearfully from the light of day.

Sometimes the light of a sun would flare
so blinding white into the darkness that is my room.
And the specters would swarm from beneath
to occupy those corners they so prefer.
Or if I blankly stare at the ceiling,
some might dare dart across my vision.

Often to tease one of the meeker ones
still quivering under my bed, I'll open
my little book and ask him to read to me.
And also really to see those wraiths above
writhe in rabid jealousy, as they clamor
for some strange and senseless dream.

Once I even asked one who caught my fancy
to interpret my dreams. She smile and said,
"If you dream of purple daffodils,
do not marry the girl you date.
Cross the red sand river wild,
and close friendship is at stake.
Gravity may fail to pin you down
so remember your family instead."

So playful these specters be at times,
so unfaithful at the next;
When they refuse to show themselves
or pretend to be dead,
perhaps as some private joke
among specters I am unaware of.

Specters come and specters go,
but my little book abides.
Perhaps within that book resides
an answer to the question
every specter has in mind.
Yet who will answer my questions,
if those answers do exist.

Who were they and why are they here?
Where do they come from and where do they go?

When I stare from my bed
at the dancing specters up ahead,
I close my eyes and wonder why
they always peek at what I write
in the little book where all my dreams are kept.