After Months of Intense Therapy He Tries to Rebuild His Life

He wakes up each night
At 2 a.m. sweating.
Sleep is a luxury for him.

It hasn't always been this way.
Rolling in his bed
He looks out the window.

He's had the same feeling
Night after night.  And before
When he bellowed Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum

Any problems in a mile radius
Seemed to disappear. So now
When he wakes,

Instead of opening his mouth,
He'll draw tight the window
And lock all the doors.

Then, with sleede ridden eyes,
He'll go outside to his garden
In the clouds, his pick and spade heavy.

With meticulous hands, he
Will set about his work,
And with practiced,
Precise skill he buries himself.

Among the weeds he searches
With focused scanning eyes
For any type of stalk
That might begin to spell trouble.

Towards 4.a.m
He starts deeper digging,
And hsi brow is now coated with
The first layer of topsoil.

He clutches at roots,
Becoming one with the earth,
His fingers still burrowing
In search of dark beans.

Later he returns to his bed
Slowly plodding the sheets, he
Melds to the mattress, ruffles
His pillow and tries to forget.

His life's been rebuilt,
So there isn't a chance
That anything or anybody
Might get him this time.

And hes' hidden his gold
Where it cannot be found.
He has bought some soft sandals
So nobody can hear him coming.