Thursday, May 25, 2017


A haunted house that’s fraught with haunted groans
A soft, suspicious sound when you’re alone
A minor chord, discordant, mingled tones
The moment all your hopes drop like a stone

The infinite abyss which sits unknown
The withered, once-loved doll that you still own
The flames which ate the saint of France called Joan
The shadow you ensure is never shown

The words your newly former friend intones
A text, “we need to talk,” still on your phone
A smell of bitter almonds from your scones
A sanguine sin for which you can’t atone

The snipping scissors of Fate’s final crone
The deathly breath of final, quiet moans
The one who comes to reap what you have sown
A spooky skeleton with spooky bones

The goblins prophesized by Alex Jones
All pale in spookiness to student loans