...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.

On Halloween, witches come true; Wild ghosts escape from dreams. Each monster dances in the park.

Halloween wraps fear in innocence, as though it were a lightly sour sweet. Let terror, then, be turned into a treat.

Mothers are the place that we call home. On them we rest our heads and close our eyes. There's no one else who grants the same soft peace, happiness, contentment, sweet release, erasing righttime tears with lullabies, restoring the bright sun that makes us bloom.

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.