so sweet the spring.
So strange the autumn, with odd things walking
which, croaking, sing.
And in its dead, still, dark, foreshadowed
tunnel dead things crawl.
A voice heard shyly, a call of autumn,
brings them out now.
A moon's soft pulsing, in silence draws them
from their furrow.
And soon will come a darkness quick-descending over all.
They travel swiftly, make no noise,
except a rustling sound
Of books opened in shadow-
in dust and cobwebs bound.
They run the circuses of fear,
the carnivals of death;
And breathe the popcorn taste of flesh,
a coldly autumn breath.
Not vampires, nor morbid ghouls
nor fiends from some dark hole;
Not parasites of blood, but rather tabled at the soul.
The table-scraps, the leftovers,
the refuse of humanity;
They feed upon its doubts and worries-
play upon its vanity.
They perch atop the gaping skull,
their talons in its sockets,
And chew the bones of brittle men,
and lock the minds in lockets.
Their yellow, baleful eyes blink once, are gleaming;
The talons release the well-worn skull,
Then deep inside we feel a soft pull,
And we run through the moonlit desert, screaming.
