Lying awake, almost midnight, rust sliding to white.
There is the sound of voices, out there in the night.
A woman, a little girl, hushed and secret, full of tears.
Echoing mutters outside my room, feeds pity, not fears.
Maybe Angela next door is watching an old ghost story.
Maybe the sleepless thoughts have found their quarry.
The woman, the little girl, so sorrowful and now so lost.
The night going to witches and their hour is now crossed.
The wind demands that the windows tremble in fear.
After a moment, those voices fall away, and disappear.
Angela loves ghost stories at night, when she cannot dream.
The TV low, but it carries in the cold air, on a pale moonbeam.
The woman, the little girl, so full of sadness, speaking so low.
What did I hear? Only the trembling panes can ever show.