In the dark, as my husband sleeps,
Nothing remains ordinary in our room.
My childhood armoire becomes a shadowy, lurking kraken,
his molten eyes cloaked as he readies himself for the kill.
The laboring clothes tree mutates to a gnarled prison escapee,
waiting to suffocate me with this long, knobby fingers
Our oversized armchair transforms into a silent, crouching panther
who has sensed my fear, and pauses, with a hunter's silent patience,
for the perfect moment to leap up and overtake us.
In the dark, wind through the open windows
becomes the beating of rabid bats' wings
and whispers of deranged accomplices as they haggle about
their preferred execution of our grim and bloody demise.
In the dark, there is only the inky doom
and my far-too-wild imagination.
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