white-washed, bleached bones,
the scent of them clinical and chemical.
skulls grinning from the countertop,
always watching, never stop.
All Hallows' Eve, that's what they say,
when the skeletons dance and the eagles bray,
because nothing is ever as it seems
on this oh-so-twisted holiday.
gaelic festivals of harvest and shadows,
Samhain comes without a thought,
and All Saints Day,
to douse the unworthy with nightmares,
black beasts of things, hemmed from the inside,
rotted and decaying heart, much like my own.
but these bones won't bury themselves,
i'm off to layer Victor beneath dirt, gritty soil.
so on All Souls Day,
we dance to the tune of the banshee's wails,
and we hope that there will always be a day
for the frightening creatures of this world to stop hiding,
come out and play, bring their palpable terror into the night,
for whatever whomever calls it,
be it anything said above,
it's Halloween to us,
and this Eve, it shall stay.