Behind the Crimson Door
The pumpkin head is scorched and black, the moon a sliver thin, A freezing breath against the glass, and fear that pools within. The hall is draped in shadow-silk, a cold that grips the throat, And there it stands, the Red Door's block, the horror I denote.
They said the things that scratch the wood are just the wind and rain; But I can hear the heavy shift, the sound of breaking chain. I press my ear against the paint, a velvet, bloody sheen, And know the teeth awaiting me are wicked, sharp, and keen.
A whisper slides beneath the crack—it isn't just a sound; It's damp and low, like something dragged across the frosted ground. Then slowly, with a grinding groan, the latch begins to rise, Revealing not the empty dark, but four familiar eyes.
The shapes that lurch into the light are blurred with claw and fur, A nightmare made of sinew and the sounds of what they were. A creature with my father’s bulk, its snout a hungry tear, And one that smells of Mother’s scent, now dripping with my fear.
The masks are shed, the final lie, the greasepaint and the dread, It isn't that they dressed as ghouls; the ghouls are who they bred. The monsters are the family who taught me how to pray, And the Red Door closed with a heavy slam, locking my world away.
I learned on this unholy night, the lesson stark and grim: The things you fear in every shadow are the love you have for him. They didn't hide the truth outside; they hid the truth in me. And now I wear the terror they unleashed for all to see.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
