A Halloween sonnet for Dark Dreamscapes
|Old trunks twist ‘round, gnarled branches high extend,|
coaxed up by wicked, knobby-fingered hold.
Infernal compass, curling hat descends,
her bony digits curl dead cloak’s grim folds.
Our witch’s hidden lips invite the young,
gray hair, like smoky mist, obscures dark lies,
white whispers, moths that flutter from her tongue.
Sharp cackles draw wide pairs of frightened eyes.
Small chins of costumed children slowly lift
to catch a glimpse of one-eyed, voyeur moon,
its glow the orange of Hallows’ Eve spindrift.
What tasty gifts lie in this forest, strewn?
Sweet treats tempt curious child within to come,
forever snared beneath foul sinner’s thumb.
For Dark Dreamscapes, prompt #2