I sit beneath your busy feet, a hidden room where shadows meet. old boxes, secrets, dust, and stone, the lowest place within your home.

This is the most trusted person in your life Firm, solid and dependable But it can also hit hard, the bottom of your life Perhaps you want a drink on me?

a trusty container in your everyday life without this you will surely cry

I’m a rhyming compound word who works hard so your hands are free. Sure, I may make you look like Quasimodo, but. . .

We were sentenced to burn in the evening hour. They masked their faces, but did not need the deniability. Our bodies were glowing fixtures adorned with glass, secondary to the revelry drowning us out below. When the party was over, our light dimmed... We survived another torturous night... but they'll need to burn us again for the next celebration.