My love awaits his grave amongst the new dead
while a sickle moon harvests this sickened soul,
Come midnight, sharp teardrops will prickle my bed,
Then madness will trickle, engulf a heart whole.
Shadows skulk past crypts as though fearing the wild
keening of mothers and weak whimpers of child,
While I clutch his cold hand, choosing to believe
that death loosens its grip on All Hallow’s Eve.
by Cyndi MacMillan, Oct 8, 2012
For Russell Sivey's Ultimate Halloween Contest
*My first Rispetto