Caravan of souls

Sometimes at night I find a troupe of skeleton musicians actors and spooky boo face innocents.

They gather around on platforms in theater play houses on carts with wrote iron fences and grand wheel carriages.

the terror growing larger in the road arms lifted draped in a black clock and naked underneath with curly chest hair an ominous vampire he makes.

The hegemony of golden sun dance in rows after the beauty is witnessed.

The four kings sit side by side on an upraised view box with rich fabrics and plush comforts their bones seem little inclined to relish.

A celebration of death, a ship of fools without navigation.

They care not for the taste of life but fight for the feel of a yawn, the stretch of an arch with fists tucked tight under and a tilt of the head.

By the steps I sat I aww in wonderment when the light moved across to the scariest most amazing little boo from a perfect moment.

She raised her arms up over her head to scare me and our hearts melted, the tears flowed so freely without sorrow in a way only the god of this world could do.

It shall forever remain in my soul, in my mind and in my heart.

I would follow her to the ends of the universe, to other demotions past the vail to the land of the dead and know she is blessed with freedom.

We may find when this world is done a grand caravan of souls wonders the plain of there after.

Somber thrives rattle their bones in marry delight to fright the living and spook them inside.

The dance of poses in rings fall down to sleep when nights deep cloth covers warm breath in cold Rigamortus.

Beware the requiem they raise an untouched crystal chalice whom grab in shiv sharif with square beards and covered face.

So to adhere the reapers gaunt shrug dap in robe folds hooded scarves cut in view the black under ghoul death riders.

For they cape and form in sight might jump in your eye, there find you face to face with foe that doesn’t run out of breath.

No field of frost nor bare in heat could follow you in the twists spent maddening wit, frenzy, might and persuasion beyond logic reach impasse.

Yet more through the days still I suffer so to nigh have yet taken my final breath, so to I go that next state I have waiting a some of company whom bid there time.

No sweet touch of skin, no deep sup of that cup we pass of life, no time but the present to enjoy the flirt rush pulled by the passage of atmosphere.

Lounged about filling the rooms with esplanade gathering by the waters, in grand palisade aww vi odd.