They can't always check downstairs
Inside closets, unawares
Our fellow members, hidden defenders
Lurking in foreign territory
Probing the corners, waiting to be found
And I whisper, "where are you now?"
Turn the doorknob made from a diamond rod
A rush of air forces its scent of timber and lead
As if an ancient tomb had been discovered
Dirty basement, broken boards, shadows dancing on the walls Waiting to be seen
And I feel the watchful eye, spying from under the armoire
The darkness is its own, this formless entity