You are back? Brave soul you are . . . same rules as before and enjoy.




Just a frightful thought alone of it, be that it is wise to ask a genie for wish to make it all go away. A simple tale, yes that it is, but a ghastly response will be what is left at the hands to hold near and dear, crimson soaked or not, it was something at one point or another.

Leaving that as wandering helpless ghost bore to world, unsure what to do, lose of lost just as all the rest, but does what it can to try finding where one’s path ends and another begin. Ghostly upon the land, be that as an emotion that cannot be caught. For who; would ever dare catch a ghoul that was never to be sought out.

Upon a dupe whom has too much pride in thinking of the most ghoulish sense of the remark, be that if a goblin fake that babble novel is but hidden in goodies not all can find, not within a fortnight.

None by far of this gory folktale is true, unless they are of the walking facile, then all are in deep trouble upon this belief. Come that as a gown wove in cells of gray matter, slick and unbearable, but mindful. End to so at the grave where all go someday.

Be soon seen as a unmark gravestone, etched of a name that many would call out to in times of need. Lost now, with grim, under warrens of soil with daisy pushing upward. Keeping that the Grim Reaper did its job and moving onto the next, for that is just much he sees life; coming and passing, as breathing.

Within the sights that afar grisly enough to make anyone ill, that what is around the corner is more than what others say. Gruesome, really, by far, what makes sickness feel as a blessing to have, but so crave for it to go away. Leveling that hair-raising denials leave all pounder the fails, heartless and boundless people aim for.

Tonight, is to dream and stay alive, have that as Halloween does much so to others. Be joys or jolts, they compare different, as hat and shoe. Come, wild unsettling haunt of this goriest daytime and nighttime.

Spend a whole day within a rumored haunted house that sinks below the loam. Molding and breaking through its harsh times, be luckily enough that it can only a hayride away, passing the large headstone of the settler who once owned the house, but as decease came, none claim it, for he was never one to share.

He was rumored enough to be called a ruthless hobgoblin that feasted on the flesh of the stupid that dared cross his fields and rested upon his formerly buffed hard floors of his decaying home. Call it the lasting hocus pocus that his bleak terminology painted the walls, in an insipid burgundy.

To the body it is of an affiliation that is horrify that leaves scars deeper, than what plans to become; nor be that as so, petty it is. For in the distances, a howl of soreness is heard and never far to be missed. See that in the black eyes of the heartless imp, far less shy to kill, if needed; an inner self none want to meet.

Light if life means anything, dare for not of chances, to raise on high the jack-o’-lantern to blaze a subtle golden flare, to hope of the hopeless. Or in the dread be taken away in pure white jumpsuit; tuck away in a small room. Where the mind wonders, away, that chance to form something, just as the silk that weaves the finest, tailored softly kimono clothing for the fairest skins, watered in colors only the mind knows of.

Where in ways, that becoming king is that only true enough to happen for those who have cheated to earn it, and say not any of it is false. Beware of the rippling aflame of the lantern that glows of the hellish blue, as that is soul taken from its host, to never return. The faintest; that this is all a macabre tale to keep from innocence hearts to die, than the mind knows so very little of this all means; so only come hither.

Hymn the lexis over and over, that this all make-believe and just anticipate it is. Make-up all this before oneself; let the saying slip freely that all this magic casted upon the brain, in an everlasting sleep.

Hold tightly of that magic wand, recite the hex and break free. Heel all emotions in a vacant mask. That of all those: who would one in a masquerade, using colorfulness to hide the sadness; as they dance until hemorrhage feet.

Found in mountain hills of hell’s mausoleum, aside a fever burn of midnight. As the mist continue to flow on.

A monster lies in all. Turned by the moon at the departed of nocturnal: to form as the rays of moonlight hither downward, morphing all into what they apprehension within for that one day; that oh chase of day.

Blinded by none other but of moonlit bay that thrives within the time clock sky; morbid to the eyes of plenty. Chocking tightly as the wraps that hold the mummy left forever in the sand of Egypt to never be found.

Just the thought alone, it is all but nothing more than mysterious. Come that as night itself, void of life, but keeps there as a home to have. A nightmare if that were to break.

Let that as the terrors come quick and silent as a ninja, just as this day does the same but rampages as a hungry ogre.

Bless that in a gloom of orange, bright and aligning. Otherworldly to any other it is. Just as echoing hoots of an owl trapped in a cage of the broken and decaying forest.

Party away unknown if becoming the dumb and careless helps. Petrify only the more that all know it is there. A phantasm for the senses all try to keep at bay.

Peculiar as the phantom that disturbed the opera, lightly to the pirate that protected his island until he feel upon a pitchfork of a fruitless garden, that lay, within miles of his gold and jewels.

Inner life, all essences befall their own poltergeist that dares all to try and stop it. Mixing a potion does nothing. Nor will it bite back more of a prank in return if threaten, know that now.



To Be Continued . . .

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