Ceiling Texture

Snow-capped peaks stretch long shadows, cropping the corners of lamp-lit valleys, Stage to child-like haunts and witness to forsaken cries; They speak, as dreams, do to the hidden, protected soul, uncovering horrors unsecured and fears realized, in solitude, Dripping omniscient truth frozen by day, light's serf, but, in the master's absence, rouses the ritual witch-dance, which tickles my guilt, boils my stew thoughts, allowing demons to be affectionate. Into myself, I welcome the dance. Snow-capped peaks dim into shadows as my lamp-lit nightmare ends forsaken sobs are still like dreams sleep cannot kill child-like haunts