Listen.
Faltering steps
in a corridor of lies
and the pitter-patter of slippers
in the middle of the night.
A witch on a broomstick
with nowhere to hide
to escape the sun that takes away
the colors in her eyes.
Like a light that leaves them blinded
when the day becomes the night
or the sudden stop of time
when the stars retreat from sight
like quiet little footsteps
in a corridor of lies
that fade away at any time
to find a place to hide.
