they say there is no rest for the wicked ones
it seems doubly true for this world weary soul
there's that knock-knock-knocking yet again
just as i settle down to early evening bread
one might think i'd be accustomed to this now
still every eve at dusk it chills me to the marrow
the rapping ever sounds upon the garden door
which opens to a view of our village graveyard
if our twilight callers' feet did but meet the earth
there'd be a well worn path from there to here
it hardly matters anymore who or what is knocking
the crucial fact remains, i choose to bar the door
i now suspect this ancient rusted lock but serves to
cage this mortal terror in, not keep the spectres out
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