I raised my hands,      God woke up;
                 I kept the scream
                             in my throat.
        Just barely.     I sat up    in cold moonlight
                      caught in thought.           Died.
So quickly I asked for hours and red spots left
          the funeral.
                     I ought to sigh:
                                      Okay, okay, okay, okay.

This is an erasure poem. Source: King, Stephen. Christine. New York: Signet, 1983. 84 Print.