Box tight
No light
Something moving
Out of sight
Coats aren’t coats
They shift
They lean
Whisper riddles
Cold and mean
Shoes aren’t shoes
They scrape the floor
Tracing maps
To one more door
The mirror hums
A thin glass lie
Showing futures
That already died
The dark is thick
A breathing clue
A shape that knows
More than I do
Walls bend close
They seem to hear
Every thought
I hide in fear
The knob is slick
The hinge is sly
It murmurs truths
I can’t deny
Something waits
A hush
A grin
A question carved
Beneath my skin
Box small
Night fall
A secret tapping
Through the wall
It calls me soft
It calls me near
A mystery fed
By doubt and fear
And every rhyme
Is just a thread
Pull it wrong
The room goes dead
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Author:
Anthony Hanible (
Offline) - Published: August 11th, 2026 03:23
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 30
- Users favorite of this poem: Anthony Hanible, A.N., turningpoint
Offline)
Comments4
Great rhyme that tells its tale in this poem. Nicely done
The poem wonderfully creates a strong sense of claustrophobia, mystery, and psychological fear.
This is a tight little nightmare where ordinary objects slowly turn hostile, and the short lines keep the tension damn claustrophobic. The ending works especially well—the idea that every rhyme is a thread makes the poem itself feel like the trap.
good rhyming and a nice message...
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