All Hallows' Eve

The cries never died--
the whispers lived on,
hushed stories that everyone knew,
yet no memory of their birth
could be told.

And each dark night
cautious words were advised,
though gay laughter trumped fear
for such legends were nonsense,
just tales of old.

The winds were brewing,
brisk air storming in
on a day that gossip was rampant
as people celebrated the harvest
out in autumn cold.

As the full moon
reached its peak and
festivities heightened beyond degree,
the tiniest snap went unnoticed
as the dirt began to roll.

Up from the depths
came sinewy limbs
that clawed at the grass
and the frigid air,
searching for a foothold.

And then it rose,
as if by magic,
face blank and gory,
worn thin and festering:
the risen dead without a lively soul.

Screams and violent wails
erupted the festive air
as people fled, old legends sprung
to the frightened mind
as the terror began to unfold.

And the graves yielded up the dead
with their bony frames
and ragged clothes rotting away,
putrefying in their own decay
and wretched mold.

The sheriff was called
in terrific panic,
who tried to untangle the rumors
that caused all the tremble
and scared even the bold.

But when, in caution,
they returned to the site,
the ground lay disturbed, nothing more,
and the corpses had vanished
from the festive cold.

Yet the cries never died--
the whispers lived on,
hushed stories that everyone knew,
yet no memory of their birth
could be told.

And each dark night
cautious words were advised,
though gay laughter trumped fear
for such legends were nonsense,
just tales of old.