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 .