Conversations

Midnight's deadline for sleep looms in the mind like fearing a serial killer in the closet
sweat makes my clothes cling to body from summer's relentless heat.

Rocking my grandson, his droopy eyes so trusting, but fighting sandman's whispers,
I looked over at my exhausted son on the couch, amazed at how love has many voices.

It burrows deep into the recesses of my cerebral Kodak crypt
flashbacks of heartbeats lived in silence without a family's sonnet spoken,
that was penned this eve by sway and hugs, soul wrapped in the sensory quill's sentences.