He was a good man

who feared the hag

but the witch whispered

things to his heart that

nestled there in a

dark recess, things

his wife fanned warm

till he gripped the knife

and overcame his fear

of the witch and death

and God and blood, so

he did the deed, and with

his hands stained red he

donned the crown and

he killed his enemies,

he killed his friend,

and all the while the

dark closed in on

his shadowed heart

so he sought the witch

he once had feared,

and she cast strange

things into her pot,

dog’s tongue, baby finger,

baboon’s blood,

and he asked, “What

is it that you do?”

and she answered,

A deed without a name,

and he stood with the witch

and watched.

Witches brew,

Jack O'Lanterns burning bright,

black cats screaming in the night,

this night you knew,

would change your life.

You make a wish,

hoping it comes true,

but before the night ends,

the moment you will rue.

As night covers the soul you carry,

you realize, far too long you did tarry,

the night will end with a soul whisked away,

and the Devil will laugh until the next Halloweeen day.

His shrill laughter grates at your very being,

seeing,

the folly of your mistake,

for the Devil's home;

it is where your eternity awaits.

sallow cheeks and

hollow bones

her skin was made of darkness

and her heart was made of stone.

her clothing sewn from werewolf furs

hair dyed with demon blood.

on halloween

she was the hollow queen

her voice

as wispy as the flesh of ghosts

eyes glowing

like a full moon at midnight

she was the hollow queen

hallowed by the ghosts and fiends.

she was the hallow queen

created from our darkest dreams.

nightmares personified, come to life.

she walks the streets on halloween night

i‘ve got road signs of my own, you know

but you didn’t heed the warnings

until the car keys were already in my hands

and now there’s danger on the freeway

my eyes don’t know the colour red anymore

so i just go

faster, faster now

sound the siren, we’re crashing now

i’ve never been this close to Death before

so what if i say hello, wave with all ten bloody fingers?

a few inches to the left and i‘ll kiss the oncoming cars

i’ve always been a sucker for spontaneity

so let’s spontaneously combust

in flames the colour of the stop signs i ignored

on the way to Nowhere

but in the end, it was all for naught.

a bloodstain dripping off the clock

plinking between the floorboards

upon every tick and tock is just as

empty as the last time they fought.

screams of accusation leave many a

heart wrung out in cold weather.

something about a soul weighing

lighter than a feather

but heavier than the wrongs that

stained his sallow, cracking lips. stained

like tea over clay.

seeping brown dregs deep into cracks we've

seen, but decided to look away

even though we can smell the decay

how long until the clock is cleaned,

would you say?

an hour,

a minute,

a day?

how long until the blood is washed

from its perennial face?

and how long until we forget

there was ever a murder that took place?

What day is it

or has it been weeks

it couldn’t be years

but i swear i can hear something

crawling in my left ear

my aches are telling me hours

one, two three,

is this a root from a tree?

its so dark in here

WHAT THE f**k happened to my hair

i need to get out of here fast

these walls are so soft though

silk maybe?

no no no I’m just crazy

or am I?

wait what’s in my eye!

okay I’ve had enough

no more of this funny stuff

WIGGLE YOUR big toe

this thing feels like a bone

wait am I even alone?

there is a string in here too

what the heck is this for

if I’m quiet enough i can hear something

is that a bell?

im buried alive what the hell!

how did i get in here?

a bell to signal the dead is undead

did i lose a bet again?

drink too much gin?

dammit must be losing my head

oh wait yeah its just All Hallows Eve

too bad no one can hear me scream

Heavy smoke fills the brisk Autumn air

and he sits in his somehow dark room

at 3 O'clock in the afternoon and broods over

the fact that not a singular inspired thought can come to mind.

Romance? No the very thought of forcing himself

into another relationship just to write a book made him nauseous.

Thriller? Ugh if he had to chase another family around their house

in the dead of night and get his clothes bloody again he'd rather die himself.

Fantasy? He was never very good at writing about

experiences he himself had not lived.

Horror? Like what? Locking another person up in his basement

while physically and psychologically torturing them? Been there, wrote that.

With nothing to write about, his will as a writer was was coming to an end

That was until on that same fine Autumn evening the ghost of books past visited him.

And one by one they took turn whispering in his ear about the greatest story's

the world had ever feasted their ears upon.

It was finally time, he thought to himself excitedly

So he walked over to his bookshelf grabbed his diary

which detailed every gruesome thing he'd ever done, placed it on his desk,

and grabbed the key he kept taped to the last page.

With his key and the Autumn wind whispering sweet nothings to him

through the cracked window, he opened the secret compartment in his desk

and swallowed that pretty little pill that would allow him

to write the best story, the world will never see on this fine Autumn evening.

The still of the night,

the stir of the leaves,

The moon shining bright,

glinting in the eaves,

The spirits were here,

they had heard us call,

The hour was near,

to redeem us all,

For witches they called us,

and stones they threw,

Forever a menace,

but we always knew

Our souls were one,

with the light of the earth,

And we could summon,

the Gods of death and of birth,

We danced and chanted,

in the light of a flame

And the forest responded,

alive it became

till the spirits rose within

the flickering fire,

And we stepped in

into our divine pyre

Finally at rest

with the source of our soul

T'was the end of our quest,

to become whole.

Love.

She was in love.

A bloom of warmth

As her eyes meet his.

A spark.

A chance.

A smile.

She chokes out butterflies,

Whispers sweet perfume.

His smile is sunlight to her soul...

He turns, his sunlight not for her.

His butterflies for someone else,

His heart blooming for another.

She crumples, the thorns of her love piercing,

Painful.

The bloom inside her stealing her breath,

Her blood, her soul.

Vines coil around her heavy heart

Cutting into her heaving lungs,

Suffocating her.

Her love is painful,

Her adoration a disease.

The roses and thorns intoxicate,

leaving maddening emotion and

Bleeding cuts.

She despises her bloom.

She despises every bloom there ever was.

Every bloom that ever caused a person the pain

She feels.

She gags on her blossoms,

A sign of love, now a show of heartache.

She falls to her knees,

The scent of her blooms potent,

Urging her on.

The thorns slice her flesh,

Sharper than a cruel tongue.

Blood like a dark lipstick.

Tears spring from her heavy eyes,

Hypoxia muddling her mind.

Her love is monstrous, destructive,

Reckless.

She struggles to breathe,

The saccharine scent filling her lungs.

She collapses under the weight of the stares around her,

The guilt and disgust.

She wasn’t a victim.

She was a fool.

In agony, her blooms invade her heart,

Her throat.

Her brain.

Blood spills to the ground,

The thorns and roses emerge,

And in the agony of love,

She wilts.

There was a flutter in his chest

as he mounted the first few steps...

He had been watching this factory

from a nearby street,

he just wanted to be left

to his own devices, and make sure

there was no one

inside stirring...

Later on that night, by the streetlamp lights

he'd return through a broken screen...

Tim just felt at home in these haunted spots,

and right now he had felt at ease

to raise a crack pipe to chapped lips and spark up

as he squatted on the floor...

There was creaks and groans from the other rooms,

Places he'd never been before...

In the back of his head there was unchecked dread,

but he rarely tuned his ears

to his conscience now...

He was too far gone...

There was something at his rear

that raised a metal wrench

above his skull and smashed it swiftly down!...

It was some deranged old fogey who'd been living in his filth!

Tim didn't have any time to scream for help...

He was killed in the shadows and silt...

And the old man, barely paying notice,

ate off Tim's skin, his face, and his eyes...

Then he crawled like a spider to the dismal black

of the factories awful insides.

10/13/21

Bunny Villaire