Hallowed Tradition

The veil between the worlds is thin tonight,
The moon, a flashlight ushering me to the other side.
Taking my seat, the parade begins.

A giant float covered with orange and black taffy rides by,
Topped by a bat’s broomstick sweeping tigers from their lair.
Pint- sized witch flies up the steps, landing and demanding, “Treat me sweetly.”

Spider rests as experts spin his story webbed with lies.
Reputations get thrown on bonfires fueled by shredded ballots as
I toast my marshmallows until they are blackened and oozing.

The party apple scurries away from my bobbing mouth, drowning itself
To escape being eaten or worse, embalmed in sticky caramel
Then surrendered to a bite-sized ending.

The end promises a beginning, born again as we wake.
The fog rolls in to shroud the moon.
The month is dead, long live the month.

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One Response to Hallowed Tradition

  1. Barbara Toboni says:

    I love a parade! Think you got all the themes of the month in here! Nice poem, Donna.

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