Poetry

Without A Sound

The old house stands quietly
before vacant skies.
The darkness suggests vague
impressions of hills and trees
in the dim, clouded light.

In a breeze, gangling
branches scratch at the tall,
arched windows. The walls
slowly contract, and creaking
floors howl—a sail to wind.

Alone, she lies mutely under
her furs and cotton, eyes leaden
and gray. The room a quickening
haze, she’s lost dancing with
shadows upon the walls.

Then, almost as a thought, she
hears a soft knocking in the
distance—at first from afar,
down the hall, through the foyer
—a gentle rapping at the door.

Slow, persistent knocks. They
continue—patterns of three. Slow.
Distinct. They ring out into the
hushed halls. Unknowingly her
body slips from its covers onto

the cold, hard floors. She steps
quietly through the black corridors
toward the growing knocking—the
senseless, somber knocking. She turns
a corner and languidly moves into

the dim lights that move like
wild things around the tall black door.
Crisp, even knocks—One. Two. Three.
She grabs the metal knob
and slowly moves the heavy wood.

He is waiting for her just beyond
the threshold—towering above her.
He stretches out his lightless hands.
She falls into him—weightlessly,
helplessly.

He carries her off into the night
without a sound.

 

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