They stand beneath the flickering light,
Two children, eyes as dark as coal,
A silence crawling through the night.
Their voices whisper to the soul,
“May we come in?” the words like frost,
A chill that makes the blood feel cold.
No key can bar them, no lock is bossed,
They linger in the corner of the eye,
And patience yields to mounting loss.
The wind outside begins to sigh,
Shadows stretch where they may tread,
And all the house seems drawn awry.
To open is a fate of dread,
To shut is not a final guard,
For something waits beyond the thread.