When Reason Sleeps, The Monsters

Had Any Poet Adequately Described The Wretched Ugliness Of A Loved One Turned Inside Out With Grief?

I Write What I'd Like To Read And Just Hope That, Along The Way, Others Might Like To Read Them, Too.

Will History Remember Us, I Wonder? I Do Hope So - To Imagine That One Might Do Something, Touch An Event Somehow, & Thereby Transcend The Bounds Of A Single Human Lifetime!

I Probably Coughed Self-pityingly In Response, Little Aware That I Was About To Cross A Tremendous Threshold Beyond Which There Would Be No Return, That In My Hands I Held An Object Whose Simple Appearance Belied Its Profound Power. All True Readers Have A Book, A Moment, Like The One I Describe, And When Mum Offered Me That Much-read Library Copy Mine Was Upon Me.

She'd Slept Terribly The Night Before. The Room, The Bed, Were Both Comfortable Enough, But She'd Been Plagued With Strange Dreams, The Sort That Lingered Upon Waking But Slithered Away From Memory As She Tried To Grasp Them. Only The Tendrils Of Discomfort Remained.