The things left unsaid

take on strange powers,

especially at night.

they become bats

who ingest dusk’s dying colours,

fashion nightmares

from them, and whisper them

into your dreams.

they turn into worms

who form long chain-gangs—

a worm at one end dipping

a bucket on a rope

deep into your wells of fears—

ferrying fear-drops into

your muscles,

to petrify you into a stupor.

they turn into beasts

with compound eyes

who slide up your optic nerve

and into your vitreous humours,

magnifying your every fault

in an endless hall of mirrors.

when daylight breaks,

they huddle together

into a question

that sits on the tip of

your tongue.

but of course they’ll refuse

to get fully formed—

these things left unsaid.