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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It's that time of year again Festivities, curling pumpkin vines Oily green witch faces And cinnamon apples Delighted screams ebbing Into the distance, away from here Here is a place that's no good Here the cobwebs are real There are never many knocks on doors here At least, not from the outside in I sit alone in the hallway, no lights Awoken by the sounds of chains again It wasn't branches scraping against The attic window, no, not this time The children laugh and swirl In vibrant colors, plastic masks Orange bags with shrieking black mouths Chocolate and gummy worms, They can't wait to get to the next house But I can't see them, not anymore It calls to me again, the groan Like the hull of a great ship Swelling with water, sinking I am drawn back down the hallway Twisting, turning, All I hear Is my breathing, my breathing Almost there now, the music box is broken I have my hand on the cold knob, I turn it, greeted by its little protest The creaking stops, and I confront The birth of darkness before me The closet door opens there, but I can only hear it Exposing the black pit which curdles blood And the mumbling, the murmured calling out, It keeps me there, riveted to place, each night The silent screams of the back bedroom The living replaced by something else The lost soul's room; death for the dead Oh god, what happened? What happened here? 8/27/2012
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