They come out at night,
On every Halloween's eve,
To seek out not fright,
But one who dares not believe.
They are not of the living,
Nor are they of the dead,
But something inconsisting,
That everyone should dread.
They take on many forms,
Eerie colors all abut,
Their shapes not like the norms,
Leaving one to question: what?
They carry forth a task gruesome indeed,
Which all should know of and all should take heed.
They jingle their trinkets and they dingle their bells,
And as they prance through town,
Onlookers may fall under their enchanting spells.
Believe, lest you will frown.
Down roads or alleys they go,
Around buildings of all shapes and sizes;
Their eerie trail is aglow,
What are they hiding under their guises?
Seamlessly into the inn,
Pouring in one after another,
Through the closed front door; within,
They will find what they need for mother.
The pieces have all been set,
There will be just one more fret.
Up the staircase they climb,
Never once touching the ground,
Their tiny bells all chime,
As they reach where they were bound.
Unaware of his fate,
He sleeps in his bed.
They will unlock the gate;
Mother must be fed.
Around the bed they circle together,
Their eerie glows all connected,
To form a supernatural tether;
The portal has been projected.
His eyes have opened to see the abomination,
But it is far too late for him to find salvation.
His soul has been ripped, collected, and consumed,
So mother could keep them all from being doomed.
A repeating cycle that will be resumed,
On every Halloween, this should be presumed.