Little Emma Poem by Adam Latham

The static hours of night she keeps
Locked up inside her sheets,
And so much like a child she sleeps,
Contented and at peace.

She does not move and barely stirs
Her eyelids for her dreams,
I wonder what her mind conceives
Behind those fleshy seams.

Perhaps a world of puppy dogs
As every infant knows,
Rotates those tired cerebral cogs
'Til pleasure overflows.

Or maybe plain old paradise
With Eden at its core,
Has found a home inside her head,
Has found a home and more.