Hallowed Eve

Who is to say if it was the cold wind that pricked those hairs on my neck? The wind was certainly frigid as it rattled the brittle bones of forsaken leaves beneath my feet like the clickety-clacks of creeping crawlies. It certainly could have been that.

It might also have been the moon that stood those hairs on end. A moon full and bright, shimmering orange through cartoon clouds. A witch’s moon, or a devil’s. A filtered bulb washing the black with pearly light as it soul-searched through the darkness.

Or it might have been the stones that were hunkered here, lying in their contorted rows, hiding their etched names away from that light, their shadows stretched away from the moon’s peeking eyes even as they trapped those bony, skittering leaves to add to their mouldering collections.

Perhaps it was the lonely owl‘s sad, “hoot-a-hoo”. Why call for his love here, of all places?

The one place where she would never reply? Instead, a far away train whistle answers his call, low and soft. It is not her voice, but it is a voice. Shadow wings flutter him away.

Or maybe it is her there, prickling my hair and skin. That unearthly apparition wandering among the stones in her comfortable, ethereal glow, gliding gracefully through the shadows, and ’or the leaves? Enchanted eyes cannot leave her. “Does such beauty really exist, and how might I know it?“

She sees me, and glides forward. What has she to fear? Melancholy eyes seek mine. My prickling hairs are charged now with current atop their frozen skin. I would see those eyes smile, I would bask in her glow!

We look into, and through each other, our eyes from different worlds. I see her soul, she mine, both souls lost in their own ghastly existence. Through the veil of death we cannot touch, but that can change. That must change...