And for this is the last day. Same rules before, you brave souls. Lights off, read at night, horror movie of your choice playing in the background. With that have fun.



Pretend, fool again, and live in the castle in the sky, as a prince or princess, it only means that believing has part of who one is, liking it or not.

Rumple a pumpkin into the shape all choice not to ever-so be. In lower thinking, a queen, that is repulsive and will be the ruler that has earned neither the thorn nor the king’s hand nor bare his children. Means nothing, but live it and see just how much it hurts without that wall that bares all.

Revolting to the insides, speaking gentle for all to give the RIP sign and wear the robe of quietness quitting into the hours.

Hark not that if a robot invention was to come, scare all those senseless and freeze. Just as the boneless scarecrow all thinks they are not.

Scary it is, simple enough as it plays only in the mind and only is real as the scream that made it. Like a shadow walking along side, quiet but there, mirroring the jester side of the maker.

A shadowy liar it will be, shock of all. But shocking enough care nothing of it.

Rattle, rattle they will do, the skeleton shakes. Awakening everything, to numb all, the skull cracking enough to spill of a misjudge toss. Lying, consume, on the ground, long as a passing soldier brittle along a snap or two with bullets and wounds; never to breathe again.

Lone that useless specter in thinking something could be done. No spell could ever break it. Just as an aging spider that makes the strongest homes.

Snarled; endlessly in a spider web, made throughout years and years, of spine-chilling, workless, hopeless spirit that had nothing else to live for; but to just make a home.

Spook them awake, the breathing almost stop and travels are nowhere near done. Spooky enough, that may have made it this far, startling really, but pleasing they wish to know more.

Strange forth come in many forms. Some wished that of a superhero made of the vines of creative consideration, deepest of that, resting in nothing else, but the supernatural mixture.

Flitting fables of superstition is all once has now at this breaking point, because now sweets taint within. Matching that as the venom that cycles the lose fang of the murky tarantula.

People have twisted so terrible through the yearend. Think: only that terrify tear moment of crashing and burn into ash. Thrilling for a moment but gone once all blink.

Days ticking away so fast now, the thirty first is nearby. A broken tiara found resting upon a shabby toga, another soul gone, in a flash, never even a name given.

An unmark tomb is there for them. With another tombstone near it, by it, afar it, and not in eye view. Call none of this a treat to them, but a threat they never saw coming, as those go beyond what holiday is all about, they are blind sighted, know that.

But yes, colorful and everywhere that they fallen on the ground. Treats of joy and trouble, knowing is the trick. In that yell, trick-or-treat for it may only be once and only that one time.

Unsteady on feet, all walk as that troll that lives under the bridge, hoping no one crosses it and becomes its meal. Tighten the tutu well; a lark is likely to happen if not careful. With: that of unearthly beings trek alongside, unknowingly, but maybe almost welcoming.

Unnerving it is, how quickly the iron races. Bring forth a vampire to feast on it and soon vanish just as that. Marking so and leaking memoires of it.

Hold of a lose grip, the wand will slip and break. Warlock be-so damneds of this fail, damn it all. As it is a intermingle web we weave.

Boilers that of the weird; slowly as a green moss pulsing through the discolor skin of a weak werewolf that plagues itself with a wicked sickness that can’t be shaken.

Fake all out on a wig, bonded by a witch whose witchcraft that is far from being that as an awfulness show.

Oh grand wizard, the troubles that must have been foresighted. Nor know that wizardry has struck who can’t fight back, losing. Wraith, the fiend no doubt that is clad as a seraph, be still little beating compassions, which comes a sudden stop.

Only chance now is walk among as a zombie, just as all the rest that still try and enjoy what this has come morphing to vastly be, with all said, the given words said with a bellow, glee tone; happy Allhallows Eves.



The End.



If you missed the last blogs, the links are below.

Part 1:

Part 2:

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