The beam of the October orange moon,
the orb, rising above the harvested fields,
cornstalks, dry, broken,
such rattling of bones from a summer life,
candlelight yellow eyes of owls hooting,
in their Gothic greetings
to a lone walker, who, with haste,
is passing by a churchyard cemetery
of bygone, cracked tombstones.
What spirits stir in their frigid graves
this very night?
As silent ravens perching in trees of
black gnarled branches in such a
cold, cloudless sky,
remind the apprehensive youth
the dead should never be forgotten
in whispers, but spoken in memories,
as a chill causes him to turn up his collar,
his breath frosty, as someday, he knew,
he too will pass through,
as his blood no longer would course,
and he will be searching for,
his place, his forever,
in eternity's mystery.
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