Burnt Offerings
Burnt toast horizons singe the autumn sky.
Cinnamon swirls smoke the golden hour,
awaiting the drizzled frosting of ashen night.
Pluck the taunt string of barren branch.
Whip the laggard moonlight white.
Bring forth the banshee’s breath.
Scorch the sockets of pumpkin
impaled in fallow fields.
“Gather, Oh come! Ye ghosts
beneath the apple tree."
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