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Times we celebrate, to be who we are not.
Bleak times, diseased remembrances.
You know because deep inside…
You have hid under a blanket as a kid,
and walked quietly down the hall, later on.
Tried not to be seen, for fear of…
Goose bumps, pricks, prickles,
and… terror that you can feel.
Crawling, gnawing, biting, sawing, hacking,
Just words any other time…not now.
Be quiet, close your eyes.
Try not to remember…
All things that make you afraid!
Rats, cats, bats, hats of different sizes…
Capes, plates and the fates… are not on your side.
Beware, don’t dare, to be scared.
Spiders, black and brown, (wreck-loose) Recluse and Widow.
What was in the drink? What is floating, there now (on top)?
Is that supposed to be there?
Does that look cooked?
Rest in peace, or in pieces. Do not drink and drive.
Bring your spike, your hammer and your cross.
Stand, your ground, don’t make a sound…
let all beware, but do not stare.
“This is just a holiday…why pray?” Some say.
(echoes at the edges of the black, nearly unseen, obviously unheard)
Copyright © Ann Foster | Year Posted 2019
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