I lay in bed beside my husband
A thousand times before.
Sometimes he is the one who wakens,
to the grips of hands folklore.
Tighten grip around his neck,
smothering each coming breath,
yet none will come 'cause grips of hands
have come for certain death.
Shallow wimps escape his mouth
towards my lightened sleep.
Cries for help and reckoning
upon his pillow sheet.
Wake, awaken I scream out!
and shake his body free.
Only to discover the next night.
The shadow would come for me.
