She knows the names of nightmares.

Though we all do at different times.

We know the way the wind grows still.

Before they slip into our minds.

We know there icy grip.

The race of heart beats in there palm.

They jolt awake into a world.

Disturbingly too calm.

We know the routine of the regulars.

The monsters under beds

The voices calling in the night.

And those that are in our heads.

But hers are something other.

They are longing and they lack.

Creatures darker then the shapes.

They have been molded from the black.

They bring the kind of fear.

That comes from waiting for the scare.

Hers are the hype absence

The things so glaringly not there.

You see there are nightmares so much worse.

Then those you pinch yourself to shake.

They are the ones that whisper "you are already awake."