A Little Halloween Poetry
The year moves near to night of dread.
The Ghoul comes back to feast on dead.
The voice first cackles, and then it moans.
Skin too tight over too tight bones.
Spider moss hanging from bone bleach chin.
Gaping maw opens, nightshade within.
"Freedom or death," the lie gurgles out.
From somewhere the wind whips dust about.
"Here is your death," it whispers with calm.
A small glowing pill on a cold withered palm.
"But freedom for all, just leave from this land."
The same poison pill in that outstretched hand.
"Hurry and choose, your time it is short."
Its bones start to buckle, snapping report.
The strong stirring wind that whips dust about
Is tearing off limbs, rip-roaring, a rout.
The Ghoul's ghastly grin says, "Your end is near."
The fiery whirlwind takes all but the fear.
The Ghoul is a ghost that tumbles alone
In the boneyards of sand and the houses of stone.