I keep you—you and all things you—behind this wooden locked door.
But still, your shadow: through the gap below, escapes; painted all over the floor.
That door stares and stares at me for days, weeks, months, years in vain;
For I truly dare not even touch that gilded, rust-eaten key again.
From there, I hear your screams as if you were declaring the next World War,
And truth be told—for no lies would suffice, it scares me to my deepest core.
From the gap below I see flickering lights, hear metallic sounds of rustling chains;
I see seeping from below unrestrained laughter, like puddles formed when it rains.
And often too, I find blood pooling underneath: rose syrup generously poured.
(Though I always stand there and stare—I don’t know what I’m waiting for.)
After a while, I noticed a curious thing: my hand, on the wood, it has left a stain;
Obscure, it was nonetheless there. I still see it with bare eyes, slightly strained.
Hey, you know, it has been coming to me lately; the monster that stomps and roars.
Trembling at first, I will be alright, for I remember: “Lock the door and count to four!”
And there it comes for its daily visit and find me it will. But fear not, dear; for I'd fain
Suffer this than to open the door and let you, too, be devoured again by Pain.