November First
Sometimes,
On the morning
Of November first,
I look back
And remember the past night
It had been so wonderful
But where had it all gone?
The evening flashed by
And I couldn't touch anything
Nothing was real.
It had started out slow,
But became faster
And faster
And everything blurred
Nothing was there.
The blur turned to something
First gray, and then taking form
It became the true wonder that was Halloween.
Of fright, and also something more
Something of magic and mystery.
And a tall, lanky figure,
With deep, eternal pits for eyes
And a stitched cackling smile.
He called himself Jack.
Jack, the Pumpkin King.
And O, the merriment,
The wonder at it all.
The pure delight
Of being somewhere
I couldn't begin to dream of.
But nothing here was real, either.
I reached out to touch,
And it vanished.
Pull my hand back,
And it reappeared.
I could hear and see and smell,
But no one acknowledged my presence.
I was alone here.
This world was not my own.
Aloneā¦.
I still lapped up the merriment,
The excitement,
Midnight, came,
Filled with the most screams.
And Jack did a splendid fiery dance.
I grew weary,
And the waves of sleep beckoned,
I struggled,
But the tide pulled me in.
And laid me ashore upon my own bed.
And the morning of November first,
I wondered where the night had gone.
