detritus rising

i read a story once
about the culture 
under the carpet,
an undulating subcontinent
of unnamed life forms
and malevolent entities
waiting to take me down.

the life forms under 
this carpet are
spectral abominations
chained to the past 
with the ivy that
haunts my nightmares.
i blanket them with
the detritus of my life.

the thing is unlike
the story, where
everything is wet
and festy, my ghosts
are dry, crumbly relics,
they crackle underfoot
like a skeleton of a
dead leaf, or of some 
small creature.

and maybe it isn't  a 
covering but an uncovering
that is needed,
as i look around and 
contemplate cleaning
the detritus rising,
at opening the cave
to fresher entities
like sunlight and
folk dancing. and
vacuum cleaners.