Monsters Under Our Bed
by Michael Doyle

The dubious detective
Was a memory of the collective.
Searching through the night
For even one illuminating light.

In the face of the living dead,
The crowd screams its dread.
There are no real answers to be found,
No matter how fast clues are chased around.

Tell me, honey, do monsters turn you on?
What's left after the nightmares are gone?
Sporadically, we weaved across the floor,
In a dance number difficult to ignore.

Silence is golden, however much we stutter.
All of us have lived to learn to suffer.
All the lessons that we have learned,
Reaching critical mass, the stars have burned.

The indescribable scenes we've accidentally played,
Left to life, every one of us feels betrayed.
Howling our desperation into the morning's air,
We don't even remember how to solemnly care.

Tell me, honey, do monsters turn you on?
What's left after the nightmares are gone?
Sporadically, we weaved across the floor,
In a dance number difficult to ignore.

(c) July 11, 2026   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved