strangereverie

In My House There Are Many Doors In my house there are many doors, and keys, and secrets kept away. In dark spaces. Hollows neither rain nor wind can touch, not that they care for what they cannot make the moss to grow on. My secret things, my secret rooms. Mine, the strain of locked creatures scratching their names behind the door. They moan sometimes, I hear them. They cry sometimes, I hear them. When I listen carefully enough, I hear you, and you alone sing. But you are one, and they are many. I see their shuffling through the gap beneath the doors, large things, small things, things that trample, things that tiptoe, things that slither