The Midnight Hour

The Midnight Hour
by
E C Wesch



Black as pitch, on a rain washed street,
past darkened windows with curtains drawn,
I slowly crept on cushioned feet,
caring naught of the coming dawn.

Around the corner they came into view,
near pointed barbs piercing the sky,
a sight familiar to only a few,
who dare to wander through midnight's eye.

They linger here for just one night
on Hallows Eve where monsters roam,
a profusion of corpses and witches in flight
flocking to discover those at home.

When all are gathered around the stones
where polished marble in moonlight glows,
skeletons rattle their shaky bones
and anticipation throughout them flows.

A sacred vow sealed with blood
marred only by Dracula's insatiable thirst,
where screeches echo in an endless flood,
as werewolves scurry to be the first.

The widow in black with sharpened fangs
with legs and arms that number eight,
cozies-up where the scarecrow hangs
as she searches for another mate.

An eerie mist settles down
over ghostly shadows of transparent white,
floating through the streets of town
joining with mummies wrapped up tight.

Jeckel now plays Hyde and seek
while pushing through the mulling crowds,
past Zombies whose soiled bodies reek
undercover of low dense lying clouds.

I joined the others, tail held high,
with paws outstretched for what is due,
my treat, a Snickers, I give a sigh....
no trick tonight, I'll give...to you.