Whispers of the Soul

PTSD

The Night Watcher

In the shroud of midnight, I sit wide awake,
The world draped in shadows, a stillness I fake,
With eyes like an owl, I scan the dark skies,
Hypervigilant thoughts, where the unseen lies.

The clock ticks its rhythm, a heartbeat in gloom,
Each second a whisper, the air thick with doom,
The sheets twist like serpents, a restless embrace,
While shadows grow longer, consuming the space.

The creak of the floorboards, a ghost on the prowl,
I strain to hear secrets, each rustle, each growl,
The moon spills its silver, but offers no peace,
In this haunted hour, my worries increase.

I'm tethered to tension, like strings pulled too tight,
My mind races circles in the depth of the night,
Images flicker like fireflies caught,
Between dreams that elude me and fears that I've fought.

I wait for the danger that lurks just outside,
A predator lurking where nightmares reside,
Yet the danger is woven in the fabric of thought,
In the silence, I wrestle with battles I've fought.

Outside, the world sleeps, wrapped in its dreams,
But here I am, captive to my silent screams,
The night stretches endless, a canvas of dread,
Each thought a dark specter that dances in red.

I'm the keeper of shadows, the watcher of night,
A guardian of terrors that steal sleep from sight,
The dawn's golden fingers tease light through the blinds,
But I cling to the darkness, where comfort unwinds.

Yet somewhere within me, a flicker of hope,
That one day, I'll find a way out of this rope,
To trade fear for slumber, let peace take its flight,
And no longer be bound as the Night Watcher of Night.