Creepy things this Halloween
follow the meek in the in-between.
In the middle reaches where fog cools
Tha half-baked assurances in the minds of fools.
Those intrepid thinkers who walk as in the sun;
who don't see the night pointing its gray gun;
they speak as if their words carry no voodoo,
yet in the dark forest of Pennsylvania Avenue, alchemists brew.
Wolves with no clothing, unseen and unfelt
with smooth words of safety, smoother than felt.
Promises of sunshine and safety are inferred,
if only the meek will remain unheard.
And so the war goes, this Halloween,
with ne'er a shot heard in the in-between.
Yet the wounded walk and do not bleed.
But in the dark forest they die indeed.