A Hand Reaching Out from Under the Bed (I Am)
Beneath the bed where shadows twist and crawl,
A hand, unseen, extends with chilling grace.
Its fingers grasp the air, a frozen thrall,
An ancient dread no light can ever erase.
This ghastly hand, from darkened depths, does call,
A spectral touch from out the darkness’ place.
The night is thick with silent, creeping dread,
Where unseen fingers stretch from underneath the bed.
In corners cloaked by night’s unyielding gloom,
A hand extends with slow, deliberate reach.
It slithers out, encroaching on your room,
To seize you fast, its touch a deathly breach.
Its knuckles white, as if it seeks your doom,
No light can banish what it dares to teach.
The bed becomes a portal, dark and deep,
Where monsters’ hands in silent shadows creep.
The hand, so pale, drips with a numbing cold,
It creeps with whispers none but shadows know.
The darkness wraps around it, uncontrolled,
Its grasp a bind that only fears bestow.
Each finger stretches, seeking to enfold,
It clutches tight, no matter where you go.
In dreams, it haunts with whispers of your fate,
A ghastly touch you’ll never quite escape.
From under the bed where nightmares come to life,
A hand extends, a ghostly, dire plea.
Its touch is sharp as any sharpened knife,
A fearsome grip that holds with grim decree.
It drags your mind into unending strife,
Where shadows twist and evil’s all you see.
In darkened spaces where the monsters dwell,
Its creeping touch is like a silent yell.
It reaches out when midnight strikes its chord,
And grasps with fingers long and cold as ice.
No sanctuary from this spectral sword,
Its touch, a curse that’s paid at ghastly price.
In shadows’ clutch, no hope can be restored,
Each brush of fingers seems to sacrifice.
A hand that pulls from underneath the bed,
It drags the heart to where the living dread.
The bed now seems a crypt of endless fright,
A place where grasping hands of terror meet.
The hand that reaches out in darkest night,
Ensnares your dreams with cold and grim deceit.
Each inch it stretches forth is pure delight
To phantoms who in night’s embrace compete.
They thrive on fear that creeps from every side,
And in your bed, their phantom hands abide.
This hand of dark, so fetid, so unkind,
Its ghostly touch defies all warmth and light.
It reaches out, as though it seeks to find,
A soul to drag into its endless night.
The shadows twist, with monstrous hand entwined,
The bed’s dark depths conceal a ghastly sight.
No sleep can soothe, no comfort will attend,
While spectral hands beneath your bed extend.