The Crypt

Beneath ages of layers of moldering leaves,

where moss lays thick and vines like entrails coil,

the fell crypt, ancient, silent, breathless waits

behind stone doors carved in forgotten tongues.

We impudent young inebriates lounge

outside the threshold of death’s very door.

Bacchanalian, we tempt, we laugh, we dare

each other to knock, provoke an answer.

Under the entry a fetid air seeps.

A latch rattles, low groans and muffled cries,

gurgling, scratching, a bilious wind.

Our firelight faulters, our confidence dies.

We never speak about that cursed night,

and if we sleep it’s always by a light.