St. Hallows Eve

Poetry Nov 22, 2019

The sharpener wails a screech,
tiptoeing on its rough edges,
sliding and crouching,
waiting to slice and dice.

The machete scratches the floor,
rips the cold concrete, fires it up.
Veiled beanies hang on tree tops,
Willows bow to the dark skies in vain.

I sit there playing witness
to tricks and treats, filled with
chocolates, bonbons, candies,
pop tarts and apple blossoms dipped in blood.

Illusions of levitation, disappearance,
plastic skeletons and ghoulish ghosts rock the air.

I'm a rather creepy pumpkin on a wooden stool;
emitting yellow light in the purple haze of tonight.

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash


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