Leave a trail of drip and slime
and body fragments overtime.
Orange fanged fire smolders out of your reach.
Bloody banshee howls and bone spiders screech.
All the floorboards whine and speak.
While you're out face moaning with the freaks.
There's flight and fright,
an endless night.
Perhaps, its Halloween?
After hearing
roasted rustling you run pell-mell.
Baying hounds bawl straight from hell.
The cemetery exudes a crawling smell.
Oh no, some gruesome thing's grabbed you as you fell.
Now, if in fear, you were drowning, how could they tell?
As you surf the seas of dread that swell?
Perhaps,
its Halloween?
Black bat animation winging down the long hall.
What is that oozing from the papered wall?
Your courage large is now surely shrinking small.
Could it be Halloween?
You find the dark is full of tricks,
like the shadows flitting across silent movie flicks.
Now that the black Sabbath candle's burned past its wick,
the witches' spells are brewing strong and thick.
Everywhere slink vamps, goblins, ghouls, zombie guys and chicks.
Perhaps, its Halloween?
This is the night where the invisible remains unseen.
When ice cold hands massage nightmares from your dreams.
Your heart stops often, more than it should.
And,
for once being bad is the new good.
One night a year, it's right to fear,
for all the world's turned
on it's ear,
Perhaps, its Halloween!
Copyright September 15 2011 All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo of Tilt-a-World
This was dastardly fun with some rather original metaphors.
Doubt anyone will ever read it.
