Abstracted

The Sleepers

I was never allowed to go outside.

My world was a locked door

and a curtained window.

My mother sang to me a hushed song.

A lullaby of sorts,

but her voice always shook and broke,

and her shoulders moved.

I don't remember the words;

they were sort of sad and full of fear.

I can think of one word.

I just thought she was tired.

'Sleepers,' she said,

'the worst sort of creatures.'

I was kept in a dark room,

my body grew thin like leaves on a bough.

My time with my mother diminished,

and our talk of the sleepers was finished.

The door was no longer locked.

The curtains no longer drawn.

When I witnessed the sleepers,

the lullaby echoed

of the worst kind of creatures.

Now I understood that heavy locked door,

that dreaded darkened room,

those dankly drawn curtains.

The world was ablaze;

all orange and brilliant against the pink sky.

I'd never seen this before,

only a heavy locked door,

while the friends that were sleepers

set my beautiful world on fire.

They really are; the worst kind of creatures.