Octoberfest with a graveyard spectre.
In the graveyard, under a gibbous moon
that draws a blood red curtain on an evil day,
stalks Jack Pestilence, master of his domain,
the fiefdom of the dead in a cursèd land.
Dark Jack, guardian of this wretched realm,
attired in age old finery, top hat and tails,
shoelace tie and monocle on a golden chain,
yet rotten with the decay of long ago,
and with skeletal face and glowing eyes,
he strides amongst the mouldering tombs,
accompanied by the black cat on his shoulder,
carries a glowing pumpkin to light his way
as the tortured souls of unmarked graves
rise in the mists behind as flying foxes,
razor-fanged hunters of living blood,
minions to Jack’s every whim and bidding.
Venture not to the October cemetery
to flaunt a dare or speak with the departed;
be sure that Jack, alert and vigilant,
prepares for you with welcome ghastly,
ever eager to have you honoured guest
at a feast provided to greet your presence,
the meal he promised his starving servants
with you the main course delicacy,
your steaming blood the appetizer,
your eyes the cherries on the sweet sundae,
pancreas strained the source of coffee
and crunchy toes the After Eights.
Line Count: 28
For Dark Dreamscapes Poetry Contest, October Round 40
Prompt: Week 1 Image 2233404