In a chamber dim and dreary, Lay a little old lady, weary. Declared dead, her soul they sought, Prepared to bury her, or so they thought.
In the silence, cold and deep, She awakened from her slumbered sleep. Her fragile heart began to race, As darkness masked her final trace.
But in the stillness of her despair, A sound emerged upon the air. Knock, knock—a faint, desperate plea, From within her coffin’s somber decree.
A glimmer of hope filled her eyes, As she heard the echoes softly rise. Her feeble hands, with trembling might, Battered the lid, relentless in fright.
Knock, knock—her voice a whispered plea, Yearning for life’s sweet liberty. Rescued from the grave’s embrace, Her destiny rewritten in that space.
Her tale of sorrow, pain, and woe, Echoed like Poe’s dark tales flow. For in that chamber’s chilling breath, A resurrection defying death.
From the clutches of the burial ground, She emerged, alive and unbound. A testament to fate’s cruel jest, Yet saved by knocking, she felt blessed.
So, when the twilight hour comes near, Remember the old lady’s tale to hear. In life’s bleakness, the knock remains, A symbol of hope that still sustains.
