written by: Paul Thwaites
Faceless await their faces,
Anonymities of fields,
Bowl in the sun studded graveyards;
Till plastic surgery awakes,
The pith of flamed consciousness
Fresh with new spice.
Thus painted, they grin inanely,
Placed on the steps and the porches,
With live candlelight of eyes,
Hanging the streets of witchery,
October last ~
Strike up midnight,
White mice scamper down clocks,
In the cinders, barefoot,
Girl weeps for a shrunken carriage.
Cold pumpkins incline faces.
A cynical masquerade ~
Smoke, tallow, soot,
Tricked in the treated light,
That lives them,
Before smoky Fall.
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