Walter Ferguson Poet I do not know?

The Twelve O'Clock Knock

Dash through black,
Jump in the sack,
Know a sandy plight.
I cling to three of light,
That beats back the shadows,
That lie in rows,
Along my wall at night.

Enter me of she,
Does she know my plight,
Not too late,
To encourage the hate,
That feeds upon my fear,
As the Witching hour draws near.

And now alone in the black,
A chill runs up my spine,
The bed begins to rock,
An evil under,
And other noises asunder,
As the shadows creep across the floor,
To take from me nevermore.

Now as the noises grew ever louder,
And I could take no more,
At twelve o’clock,
There came a knock at my door.
At the tolling of the bell,
I rose to dwell,
I faced my fear and opened the door,
A dream nevermore.

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