Witching Hour
On the bank of the Mississippi River
under a cottonwood tree,
watching the river's water flow;
a young man holds a thin hickory
fishing pole in hand,
to be alone with his thoughts,
seeping deep into the delicate,
soothing, murmur of the river.
He came from a poor indigent family.
Life was a bit obtuse for him.
School was boring
and pointless in his mind.
He seemed to most enjoy getting into trouble.
The folks around felt he was always
making egregious blunders.
One astronomical twilight night
he dared his friend
to walk through the consecrate
dilapidated graveyard at midnight.
A stir in the air,
there was movement there.
A void within the eerie luminous cemetery.
There in the open graves,
laid the sacred dead in their beds.
Heartrending moans of the wilderness
somewhere far-off in the wind.
The hours disordered breathing
circulated a redder glow;
hell rising upon the headstones.
A sinking dull feeling fell upon both boys;
down to their knees they stumbled and fell.
Awaking from their delirium
sought to mediate disputes
of what happened the night before.
8/18/2019
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