Beneath the Floor’s Surface
Here lies a crypt where shadows move,
restless below, in their worn-out groove.
Beneath the floor where light won’t go,
wraiths and whispers in the undertow.
Their forms drift by in silent glee,
twisted and free,
each flicker a dark delight,
mocking the living from their hidden site.
In creaking timber and dust of years
they carry on with ancient fears.
With every shift the past peels slow,
revealing the sins they want to show.
Heed this tombstone’s grim last jest —
in shadows beneath,
the damned find rest.