Kill It, Kill It Now

Once upon a midnight dreary, I sat frozen, weak and weary
Fingers clenched in silent terror at the scratching on the floor
Through the night the sound was creeping, as if something foul was seeping  
From a world where death lay sleeping—sleeping just outside my door
"Is it madness?" I did whisper, "Is it something to ignore?"  
Still, it scratched—and nothing more

Cold the air grew, thick with rancor, filling me with some great anchor  
That weighed my soul in dread and panic, shaking me to my core
Could it be a thing of nature, bound by life and death’s own stature?  
Or was it something darker, fouler, come to gnaw forevermore?  
"Will it leave me?" came the question, desperate as I searched the floor
But it scratched—and nothing more

With each moment, louder, nearer, came the sound, a truth much clearer—  
That the thing behind the scratching wasn’t bound by life’s last shore
O, what horror now had found me, and with madness did surround me?  
I had prayed that death would save me—save me from that fiendish score
But the thing that scratched the woodwork was a thing beyond death’s door
It would scratch forevermore

Shall I kill it? Shall I smite it, find some way to still and fight it?  
Yet what use are steel and powder, what use are mortal oaths of war?  
For the thing outside was writhing—deathless, timeless, ever striving—  
Not of flesh but something deeper, from a realm of ancient lore
Could not die and could not falter, this was wrong to nature’s core
And it scratched—and nothing more

In the black, I heard it hissing, felt the breath that death was kissing
Felt the weight of what was coming, like a beast that’s bound to roar
Closer still the scratching trembled, like some chaos disassembled
And the walls seemed bent and twisted, shifting with its cursed score
"Leave me be," I cried, so helpless, "leave me, foul and wicked spore!"  
But it scratched—and nothing more

Through the night I sat in silence, knowing well that no defiance  
Could resist the ancient hunger of the thing that scratched the floor
For it cannot die, nor linger, bound not by some twisted finger
But by laws that break the heavens, laws that twist at nature’s core
In its wrongness I am drowning, and I know that evermore,  
It will scratch forevermore