The night before the haunt
was supposed to be filled
with pure joy or sheer terror,
but not a deep depression,
hopeless burden against all odds.
Arms extended reach out
trying to make a difference
or not to be dragged
on the sweeping of the tide,
but succumbing due to deep pressure.
Perhaps rain or wind,
or beasts howling in despair;
dreams of butch scavengers
feasting on the trade
of a mutilated corpse.
Things are not okay,
feeling echoes of a vacuum swirl.
The fog drips and stains
with the liquid twist
of its cold caress
and the clock ticks
as the time wanes
underneath the rough judgement,
a degradating stench of foul air
on the night before the haunt.