Haunted Woods
Behind silvery gray animus clouds, the moon does hide.
The night does cry; its heartbeat rise and falls, like the tide.
Celestial, sleepless, unbending, cold night gathered overhead,
Veiling eerie shadows, eternal time with hideous guise, dread.
Idle and dank, surrounded by broken-down fencing and gnarl skeletal tree,
A grave “No TRESPASSING” sign forbidding entry to the beastly;
Hangs warding off the unwanted and those had doubts,
Only spiders spurred, floating sticky secure line hidden hereabouts.
Wind weaves through mangled limbs with howls, and spies embed
A gaunt, ghostly, hollow, hooded man, sickle in hand, in its stead;
Reaping of life, lifting his black haunting mound shroud a ted.
Condemned, refusing to release its ghostly dead.
Strain, howling, a full moon he stands, searchingly ahead;
Pain screams rip from his throat, bones, and soft tissue bled.
A stir in the air dares to forsake, on, as he falls to his knees, unfed.
Conned the night a moment longer, blood it did crave, then fled.
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