On all hallowed eve
the ghouls descend
from the picture perfect
walls – this graveyard
where the past is hanging
is a gallery of echoes –
pyramids of the Nile
and Alabama’s cotton fields
where souls are hijacked
by the fluidity of words –
no substance to
the language of a ghoul.
Men of straw will
vanish when the lion
roars – history
revisited when the
hunted has his word.
At last the language
gives creation its due,
blessing every living thing
from snake to toad to you.
2018
Anne's mediocre poetry 