By Mike Vakian
The hush of midnight’s keeping,
Where solemn spirits dwell,
A name through whispers weeping,
Soft as winter’s first spell.
A shiver in the curtains,
Though the window’s fastened tight,
Frost mirrors on the glass pane,
Dancing with the moonlit night.
A tapping stirs the silence,
No mortal hand the knell,
The shadows lean to listen,
Where demons love to dwell.
The window creaks and opens,
Inviting night’s cold breath,
It carries dreams and whispers,
A foreboding hymn of death.
The hearth grows cold and silent,
Its embers choke to gray,
The walls breathe heavy darkness,
And bid the soul obey.
At last the window closes,
Its hinges sigh once more,
Yet whispers haunt the silence,
Like footsteps at the door.
Poems and stories from the edges of light and shadow 
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