BootShopStory

Are these snow falls
insinuating a gathering
water's shadow,
is this true of
light's import,
that flowers
should spill their
petal's & rice be
thrown,
a white thought,
here in a clocks winter
darkness,
the black flake
of January,
& just for
the sake of a
haunted moment,
for the shadows,
the reflections
hiding in candle-light,
it's right where the
bat was hanging,
the black flake of
January & the
Vampire,
by Spring
what ghosts & souls
are won up
through the cemeteries
cursed or
blessed imaginations
&
grounds?

They had no wires then,
& clocks were
the shadows of rope,
that ghosts
trapped in mirror's had
hung themselves with,
with their fingers
in spirit twisted into
knots through the black
& white stars,
of space & time falling
into nightmare or wish,
the drone of the civilized
world,
a bell of mutinous
skulls moving into a
pearl before the
rainbow pulled the
black clouds together,
& Frankenstein's monster
was born again.

The godmother with child
met the vampyr,
& the dancers
movements changed the
colors of interior,
as though pulling stitches
out of both day & night,
as awkward coffin,
a child's bones in
the dust & the
coffin suddenly unbroken
in it's weight,
& the dancers
movements moved away,
as though a disappearing
song, pulling the stitches
& strings of nothing.

Inside the ring of fire,
a human figure
lay in it's side,
as though half melted,
half melted by acid,
from some monster
long defeated,
as though half melted,
a human figure,
with some kind of
weapon next to it's
left side,
inside the ring of fire,
the enclosure, in
& of itself almost outside
of time & space,
as a moving clock
seems to be in keeping
to itself,
yes a human figure
half melted,
as a castle becomes
half destroyed,
just waiting
a little longer,
a little longer
for the sun, or the
night or the moon
in either cursed or
kindest way,
to come to it's
host of a human figure,
& so inside the ring
of fire there waited
a strange mystery,
& outside of time & space
a strange surprise.

Much to make of scorpion's
in oblivion,
every rectangle to
chant
prompt delivery of
geometric
happening's,
like a code breaker
at the front
of a telephone
line,
& new winning's
beliefs & possibilities
when a shadow
in the field
awaken's to
find new government
to station
& sanction these
here part's,
so the snow
hath come & gone,
& no true
quarrel may
last long before
the spring
sun,
chapter's of lilies
in the pond,
& earthquake's
that fumble tall
structure's for
true touch
down delivery,
there are no
ghost's that shall
standby aghast
at these form's
of true
gravitational delivery,
the spigot
& hose let's
not be split
upon the
subject,
no trip to be
given for
granted,
the welcome mat,
& the
Halloween trickery
it doth
welcome as some
sanguine invitation
or portent
to coming
sweet & sticky
doom,
a fly that dances
here, &
no mystery as why
eye's in
multi-facet prey & catch
& then peer
into the sky
to dream,
game token's that
still glitter outside
the haunted
shadow of an
arcade,
& the few

Within the circle of the
unexpected unmasked,
many ghost rise
& rest, a light
moves the night
gentle & frightfully
pious through the
grave stones of
cemetery half cursed
& half blessed,
within the circle of
the unexpected unasked,
many a ghost may
rise & many a
ghost may rest.

In absolute silence,
no noise at all,
no light in the air,
the broken towers,
proof of nothing from
their sleep,
there was an abandoned
voiceless hollow,
the indicative rippling
of ragged hangings,
both curtain & corpse,
those bricks
puzzled, & then
slipping, at &
in sign of
no particular order,
but no footsteps
approached,
& so there was
doubled the silence,
& there turning the
craggy angles of the
stone, to the
very point of sharp
corners, where all legs
would begin slipping,
for this a constant
grip upon silence,
silence vacated,
& high in the
bare, a silence
was lost to
them, lost to
them then that gasped,
& so were plucked,
but no foot steps,
& so were plucked,
proof of nothing
from their sleep,
no light in the
air, the broken towers,
in absolute silence,
no noise at all,
no light in the air,
the broken towers.

Re-entering the door,
nature, without a moment to
lose,
& what is more,
the sky about it,
a predatory spider
directly in speed,
eating up the corridors,
the door opened
by degrees,
with every moment,
several moments
whispered,
being all,
the stairs in
silence, as though
life must stop
& watch it's image,
& fall grotesque
& abandoned,
into a land of horror