Bobby climbed the stairs to look for a chair,
to discover the places where gifts hide,
tall realms where secrets quietly reside.
Mother would caution, “Look not there, beware.”

Bobby’s father, his mother had declared,
carried the chair to the attics embrace,
the darkest nook of the old house’s space.
Sister would oft’ warn, “Look not there, beware.

the bugs that settle there will breed nightmares,”
but Bobby, bold and defiant as can be
brushed off spiders, ants, and worms with no plea.
Though everyone warned, “Look not there, beware,”

Bobby’s daring heart refused to be impaired.
He opened the door with a hint of pride,
only half noticing what was inside,
part of him begging, “Look not there, beware.”

Not glancing up he claimed the lonesome chair,
grasping it by its sprawled and feeble legs,
and tugging it past the ones over head,
while still muttering, “Look not there, beware.”

The commotion startled his mother fair,
she rushed up the stairs towards the vexing sound,
and was devastated by what she found.
No one had warned her, “Look not there, beware.”

She screamed out in fear, grief and despair,
and grabbed Bobby’s face, veiling his young eyes.
stumbling through sobs and anguished cries,
pleading with Bobby, “Look not there, beware.”

Since that dreadful day Bobby only stares,
at his food, his hands, the water’s surface,
even at his father’s funeral service,
he just hushed softly, “Look not there, beware.”