The Scratch In The Door

Just something silly

Twas a scratch on the door

That I caught by the light

Of the sun as it set

through the blinds

With a tilt of the head

and a squint of the eye

I could just form a face

In my mind

And as gold drained to red

And that red then to black

My eyes would imagine

The face leering back

But when morning would come

and the bedroom ablaze

with the light of a new

burning dawn

I'd search all of the grain

of the wood of the door

and as sure as I'd search

it was gone

I think night was the time

or perhaps just before

that it chose to appear in

the scratch in the door

Sometimes I'd whisper a

secret or lie to the

carving so sly, hid deep

in the wood

And wait for an answer

to come through the darkness

and desperately wish

that it could

But I knew it wouldn't

Was resigned to that fact

And because of its rudeness

I burned the door black

But just last night as I

crawled into bed and stared

at the hole where my door

would have been

I heard a low mumble

from under my hearth and

instantly knew the sound

came from "him"

Closer and closer came

creaks and groans from the

bones of the home I had

carelessly burned

Cracked fingers of wood black

ashen and sharp came round

the frame where the door had

once stood

But I swear to you now

That I fainted away

'fore the face of the door

ever could

You asked why the bedroom

doesn't have any door

I'd suggest you buy now

And don't ask anymore.

Reviews

[Jessica E. Hamilton]

Hilarious poem. I needed a good laugh. :)

[Samuel Dickens]

Excellent silliness--my cup of tea!