We walked the countryside on all Hallows Eve Autumn came hither, and Summer bereaved The souls gone before, still walk this road, wind whistling trees, stirring leaves of burnt gold Licking us both, they tried cutting our throats, thankful of vesture, warm scarves and heavy coats. The night grows darker, our hearts, hand in hand our step a bit quicker, deeper inside, hinterland. The rustle of forest twigs and the creaking of trees, things scurried underfoot, and grew our unease. "Get inside me now," I yell. Opening up my coat. "A demon approaches, up ahead, on the gray road." He brings the fog, and a processional brass band he offers us quarter from this devils woodland. He says, "You follow or your souls may not keep, for we march on Hallows Eve, in twilight sleep."
Joseph Wicke 2020
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