Azalea

When I was younger,

I once awoke in the middle of the night

to a knock on my room’s door,

I got out of bed and put my feet to the floor.

There was a woman there,

she was adorned in a black dress,

a black hat and a lace veil,

which shrouded her face.

She bent over whispering only two things:

lies smell like cinnamon,

and then she whispered the next part:

always look for the exits.

When she went to stand upright

I caught a glimpse of her face,

even shadowed by the darkness of this place,

pink blossoms of azaleas in a dark void.

Two eyes red as garnet

pierced through the petals,

both spelt danger,

till she slipped back to the shadows.

I slowly closed the door

and crept back to my bed,

weary of the looming creatures

who were dressed in the absence of light.

I slip away back to a soundless slumber

waiting for the light of day,

to pierce my imagination

and  keep my fears at bay.