All Souls All Souls
In October dusk, her spirit haunts the side yard. A witch prefers
Crème Brule ice tea firewater, in black white labeled bottles
Left opened, kissed by wind, she stood in a blue recycle bin.
Old No. 7 poison, laced by xxx's scratched, on whiskey's side.
Fate dances in Prada boots as plastic bags. Flap and fray in
hedges, she was trapped to tumble across a littered lawn.
Ex-witch cackled, with unseen cats familiar yowls under pine trees.
Lost souls feed her unquenchable attention to need.
She was shadow seductive, leaning across a gas tank of a parked Harley
until motion sensors side yard lights flickered on November.
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