The air hangs thick with moss and mist,
A forest old, a whispered tryst.
Beneath a sky of bruised indigo,
A pumpkin sits, a silent woe.
Its skin, a canvas, weathered, worn,
With lines of green and amber born.
A face of fear, a twisted grin,
Where shadows dance and nightmares spin.
Gnarled twigs, like skeletal limbs,
Reach out, as if to break the hymns
Of rustling leaves and whispers low,
That haunt the depths where secrets grow.
The light, it bleeds from hidden stars,
A glow that paints the ancient scars
Upon the bark and mossy stone,
A scene where life and death have known
A long embrace, a chilling bond,
Where darkness rules, and peace is fond
Of whispers soft, of chilling sighs,
Of eyes that gleam, of haunted skies.
The pumpkin waits, a silent king,
In this dark realm, where shadows cling,
A chilling sight, a haunting grace,
A specter born in this cursed place.