poetry

 The candle flickers, dim and low,

As shadows stretch and start to grow.

You hear a scrape upon the floor,

A heavy hand against the door.

You hold your breath and squeeze your eyes,

To mask the truth and quiet cries.

But floorboards groan beneath a weight,

It’s far too late to seal the gate.

The lock turns slow with rusted sound,

Your heart begins to skip and pound.

A sliver creeps of dead, cold gray,

To chase the warmth of life away.

The air turns thick with scents of pine,

And vines of rot begin to twine.

Two yellow orbs burn through the night,

Reflecting back your fading light.

It does not walk; it starts to slide,

There is no corner left to hide.

It whispers secrets meant for stone,

And chills the marrow in your bone.

The grip is tight, the air is thin,

It's wearing now your very skin.

So sleep, dear soul, and cease to dread,

For you are gone,and is fed.