By day each soul must walk within its shadow. Only night can make us whole again.
Eight days the light continued on its own: A miracle, they say, but not more so Than ordinary lives of flesh and bone, Consuming wicks burned ashen long ago.
Angels are quite ample cause to cry.
...A fuel-less flame is nothing but a wraith, However wrought, if unsustained by passion.
As spirits roam the neighborhoods at night, Let loose upon the Earth till it be light.
Halloween wraps fear in innocence, as though it were a lightly sour sweet. Let terror, then, be turned into a treat.