They stood outside William Burke, the snow starting to fall, Bobby’s chill just beginning, a sneeze, perhaps the start of the sniffles. “Hey Poe”, he whispered to his taller friend, the shadows from the barren trees scattering the landscape around them. “What happens after Halloween”? Edgar, studied his discolored leather boots for a few seconds. Finally his delicate hand found its way upward, shading his grey eyes, the departing sun turning them into late night embers…………..
“When Halloween’s over, and the streets have shut down, and all is past midnight, at three there’s a sound. The point of a boot that tenders one’s ear, and makes hope wonder if grace has drawn near, and all saints are willing to rise from lost mist, to break bread with Jesus and see what they missed. Upon stolen scion from some witches tree, that wood of all centuries, that cursed and diseased. What shadow does roll, antithesis of flame, that’s colder and darker, on Lucifer’s bane. Hath reason a wonder to seek dawn so clear, when motive is austere to keep pain and fear. The heel of the boot now in middle it strikes, the night is not over, the suns not in sight.
Whispering sentences, long tailing words, of tokens lost innocence, a slice of two thirds. The wearer of boots now, his name can’t be heard, he comes howling silence for the final third. A mystery of puzzles, of black feathered birds, to come for the soulless to gather the herd. What now a shutter that breaks against glass, that disturbs this silence in darkness at last, a wink from one dark eye, a bending of lid, the board disappears where the shutter did live. There will not be covers, for those who our lost, the bond has been broken, the line has been crossed. The heel of the boot in middle it strikes, the night is not over, the suns not in sight. What Nephilim worship, that spent half the night it draws nigh its quarter a cost for what’s right.
Ah, children sweet children, adults in your bed, tarry your promise, a soul in its stead. The promise you promise, your oath of strong drink, the boots standing silent before your odd keep, an apple a plenty, the sweetest perfume, mask you from haunting while painting strange doom. A nightmare of kisses, a third before sun, silent oh silence, when destiny’s done. The heel of the boot now in middle it strikes, the night is not over, the suns not in sight”. -11.01.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל