Ain’t Frit

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Ain’t Frit, Ain’t Frit

Ain’t Frit

And now
the voices start
those grody sounds
that stop your heart.

Beneath the floor
within the walls
the precedent for
dull footfalls.

Calling to us
one by one
with no clear sight
of saint or villain.

A spectral round
of hide and seek
directed by a
floorboards creak.

Each time we search
there’s nothing there
but of this guest
we’re so aware.

Was it here first?
we cant be sure
it wasn’t brought
from distant shores.

As never had
it raised its head
until that gift from
land of Vlad.

Was carried over
our threshold
but did this herald
something cold.

The bearer of
an ancient fear
something as of
yet unclear.

Or are we merely
in the thrall
of phantoms
more explainable.

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