Little People

It was night when she heard them,

but never were they seen:

the little people, running around,

running in the ceiling.

Pittering,

pattering,

chittering,

chattering.

"Mice," her mother suggested,

but never found one mouse.

"Perhaps the wind," was her next guess,

but the girl heard them on windless nights.

"Calm down sweetie," her mother would say,

"It is nothing more than rain."

But what about the nights with no storms?

Pittering,

pattering,

chittering,

chattering.

Under the covers she went,

hiding herself away,

from

not mice,

not wind,

not rain.

Pittering,

pattering,

chittering,

chattering.

Night after night,

once she was in bed,

she heard them return,

never peeking out her head -

and wanted nothing more than to escape.


A/N: It did a weird double spacing thing that I don't know how to fix, but anyway... this poem is about me freaking out in my old bedroom because I would hear weird noises in the ceiling. It was horrifying.

C. E. Taylor