The Closet

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