Shrunken heads upon the bed,
Listening intently to what I said.
The melting clock remembers what is lost,
But then they talk.
Without their feet,
They still walk.
The lampshade, an eerie bog.
And what was once a door is a shadow.
There it is, no more.
Within the fog more heads creep.
For this I fear I'm not asleep.
Taking a breath too deep.
Standing here trembling.
Weary and weak.
Yet I muster the strength to speak.
"Who are you? How do you walk? What secrets do you keep?"
The silence stretches, then a raspy whisper...