More than the Bedside Table.

Sheets are empty of motion,
cold, having never held heat.
The body' is in the chair, awake,
taken away by thoughtless dreams.
Restlessness in the finger tips of relentless hands,
exploring the luminous tent of fresh linen,
searching for a spirit that's pass by there,
for no more is found than the bedside table.
I wept in my linen grave draped in moonlight,
solitary as the beaming mother herself.
Stay with me. Please.