still the knocking
remains
the slight thud
on a wooden door
in inexhaustible
persistence
faint, the taps
at first
mere figments
dancing in the ears
easily tossed into
a box of explanations
yet it was the repetition
which served as the key
to a gate leading
to its own hell
and how it cast
its devious spell
a light, almost gentle
but most haunting
resounding tap
echoing in the
mental corridors
the way children's
laughter carried
through the halls
of the ancient family estate
a once lively sight
reduced to the foreboding
facade that now remains
drained of both children
and laughter and light
and life
the wet gray stones
don't even hold moss
or lichens, just bareness
as a woman would weep
at the news
so the tapping pours
like tears from that devastation
a constant reminder
that what was locked away
in one of the many attic chambers
remains and remembers
and is relentless
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