I know not much about ghosts who steal from your bed .

Or at night where you lay your head .

But I know I’ve heard the whispers as quiet as they can be .

While I was writing and drinking tea .

They nudged at my ears and I felt it no matter how softly .

And how at night they sang themselves to sleep .

Or how sadly they would weep.

Each tear telling a story .

And each sigh being a rhyme .

I would make connections with each word no matter how jumbled .

Or buried in the herd .

But this did not bother me .

I only felt sorry .

I thought I would be scared.

But not after those stories they shared .