scratches

1.
Father runs
to doors unstuck
‘neath timber frames
with shirt untuck.

2.
The wick’s a-splatter
to meet a clatter
beyond the wood
where silence should.

3.
He holds it there,
mouths a swear
in candle waves
that dance to staves.

4.
Engrossed in breathing
first and fore
he leans his torso
to the door

5.
that creaks beneath
the weight of years
and shivered,
recollected fears.

6.
“Be gone, leave here
and leave us be!”
He calls to darkness;
a placid, black sea.

7.
“This place is mine,
and I’ll not leave,
I beg of you,
it’s truth I breathe.”

8.
A finger scratches
floor then wood
and thumps the door
as demons should.

9.
With rasping breath
and toothless warble
a voice shines hollow
like a Christmas bauble:

10.
“I am this fear,
I am this rage,
I’ll dance on your grave;
a soft, wet stage.”

11.
Father just wept and
dropped his head,
opened the door
and fell down dead.

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