The Howling


The dark blue sky

that is a summer’s night,

my bare feet skim the grass.

I extend my tips towards a bundle of flourishing leaves.

I creep through a decaying fence and

crawl through dancing grass.

Watching me are the dark hollow eyes of the decomposing estate.

With shattered sides and torn screens,

I oddly feel at home.
Against my hazed judgement,

I turn away to flee.

The rotten bones call for me to stay,

in fear I run.

The dark howls like a siren,

her dependency calling

for me to stay.

I slink through the fence and into the garden,

where swirly plants shade me from devils.

A house down the street

is like a jack-o-lantern, with big orange eyes.

But like a carved pumpkin,

it seems empty.


While the crumbling structure next door is different.

This is a living pumpkin.

With strong vines.

Vines that wrap around me and pull me



and closer

to its front door.



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