Beacon

hidden away behind lock and key i keep my lock latched tight. solid oak and a deadbolt between me and the night.

i know theyre out there waiting for me, restless ghosts of old memories.

lurking the shadows of the late shift streets like junking searching for one last fix before they sleep. theyre whispering. pale light is sneaking in beneath my curtains drawn. its drawing me away, its beckoning. the street lamp is a beacon in the dark,

standing watch over the night, like the lighthouse patiently waits for dawn. recollection rattles its chains, haunting old haunts in the midnight rain, occupying abandoned space.

the late night memory is a 3 a.m. stranger with a familiar face, a stalker lying in wait. theyre whispering.