Jack Cohen

The Witching Hour

The Crypt Keeper's gaze chilled my bones,
he dug the graves I passed.

"Run dear child run," he said,
you must flee now fast.

For when the bell tolls, the time will come,
the witching hour is nigh.

From these graves, the dead will rise,
spirits not on high.

These haunting ghosts hate warm life,
though some are more benign.

Every night they escape their tombs,
to which they were confined.

You must flee now, you don't understand,
that to which I imply.

For in this crypt of restless dead,
I was the first to die.



To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.