Knock.

Its rickety floors feel ten thousand years old,
With rotted out door-frames all covered in mould,
There’s weeds on the porch growing slowly inside,
But I promise there’s no better place you can hide,
Inside an old closet where clothes used to hang,
You’re holding your breath as you count up to ten,
The moths all aflutter as you enter the room,
The only thing that’s alive in this shadowy gloom,
And you realise there’s nobody left here to find,
They moved to the real world and left you behind,
But sometimes you still hear them, their feet on the floor,
You swear they would knock if this house had a door.

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