Through the pale door, they come
a hideous throng with burning eyes
and velvet mouths teeming with dusk
shadows twisted in funeral lace

They do not knock, they do not wait
Their fingers scrape like rusted iron
against the ribcage of the night
unlatching every dream you ever buried

Forever they rush
out of silence, into scream
trailing whispers like burnt veils
dragging sorrow with them

One hums a hymn you knew in youth
but slower, slurred, soaked in sadness
Another bares the face you wear
in nightmares you cannot confess

Candles flee their flame in fear
mirrors blacken at their breath
and time, sweet, stupid time
melts like wax upon their passage

Through the pale door, they spill & swell
not guests, but memories undead
echoes dressed in bone & velvet
waltzing to the pulse of dread

And still they come
No end, no dawn
only the endless hush of horror’s hymn
forever pouring from that pale
unspeaking door

Note: The following poem was adapted from Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, “The Haunted Palace.” Read it here.