I might write a name, sacred and held close, to recall a person back.
I might write a word, profane and proud, to believe they were there.
I might prick a finger, make a drop of blood, to call all the demons to me.
What might I say, as they are gone forever, not looking back, out in the plains?
Where might I go tonight, to find someone else that will be a ghost in September?
What can be made from candle wax and honeycomb and thought chasing starlight?
Fall will be cooler, the only soothing part of it, as masks are only my stock and trade.
A vampire and a devil might walk past my door on All Hallows Eve, but no curses come.
I made an idol of passion, neglected bravery, and did give Lucifer gold freely today.
Fall will be cooler, but not much else. Darker, with the trees naked and sleeping.
I will walk those narrow streets stuffed with houses, an dead orange leaves melted.
I will walk until a ghost comes for me, in the smell of wet earth, and cotton candy mist.