Hearken mortals and beware!
This tale of truth, I’ll but once share…
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Our featherweight fists strike the cold, iron door
of the ancient mausoleum; which we tremble before.
A mossy handle struggles, groans; then slowly wriggles, left and right.
Rust sprinkles down upon our feet. A chill runs through us. It’s midnight!
A somber, mumbled “Trick…or…Treat?” escapes the weathered tomb.
We three young fools, with heady plans, are unwise to pending doom.
From deep within the death-black crypt, two bony limbs emerge
baring earthly treats, so tempting; we cannot quell our urge.
My friends push past me, rashly; rush into the murky vault,
and blindly reach toward their reward. Please heed my cries of “Halt!”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Shrinks from the State decided my fate, seventy years ago.
The staff says I, sometimes, sleep soundly now;
Not screaming, in horror, their names; full of woe.
My less-fleet-of-foot, ill-fated friends were most dear;
Yet, their grave memory lingers; still grips me with fear.
Wailing shrieks sear my ears as their restless souls near;
Haunting my dreams, on All Hallows’ Eve…every year!
—
Debra Wagner is a fledgling poet, who recently leapt from the comfort and privacy of the nest, to feel the thrill of the winds beneath her newfound wings.