Editor's ChoiceMusingsPoetry



They appear like upturned wineglasses against the night sky.

Casting eerie shadows on tombstones when the midnight bells ring.

With halos of “scented terror,” they illuminate our minds with fear.

Painting our hearts with hues of future sorrows.


The air chills visibly as the dead come to trade.

Coughing hell’s smoke from their rusted lungs.

While they barter their sons for a respite that will never come.

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