In the cool fog of the predawn morning
on a cold November day.
Darkness is apparent, waiting,
A shadow bouncing along the edges of the grey.
The wind howls a melancholy song,
like a Bassist plays the blues.
A dark tall figure looms there,
the wind barely ruffles its hair.
A laborador stand on hind legs,
not the playful dance of a dog, but the haunting stance of a demon.
It stares straight through me.
I am frozen in fear as it draws near.
A hauntingly human walk as it steps from the shadows on my block.
A deep, menacing growl pierces the winds howl.
It speaks, "Come with me," and the darkness closes in.
My soul was not saved
on this cold