On the eve of the ancestor
Amid the yawning moors
The poets stood in the shadow of himself
As the milk of moonlight poured upon his person
The pips of children were carved in multiple, and scattered upon the riverebed
Faces, so many to be seen, rendered from tender hands and cast to turnips, met his glance
He stood at attention and listened to the song of the souls that lay inside the river,

waiting for the midnight hour

"I seek to know what is forbidden",
He read aloud from the pages of the Book of Life
Inscribed in the blood of  heros
Yet there, from the pits of a forgotten wishing well, emerged a maidens wraith
With hands of ivory and lengths of silk and locks that met her pale feet
She came to greet that who had summoned her
The pallor of her face  did not mask her faded grace
Beautiful as a peral amid a wartorn shore,
She apperared to the poet as a chime in the night
He was not seized, nor startled

"I am your expectation",
The key to your damnnation
"Give me the secrets of death this Ancestor night"

I will tell you in the shadows blight

"Speak to me in secrets I am not to know"
They are born of a realm thats far below

"Come to my face and share your grace"

My lips to taste-lets be of haste

The poet in his hubris, came unto her face and bosom bow
Relinquished the book to the moons amber glow
Upon the morning, there was none to be seen. No book no wraith nor poet fiend
A child of the manor was seen carrying, a length of ribbon, awash in blood
Worn as a keepsake in her auburn hair

-as she returned to the realm of the wishing well, as the moon took flight
-Appeased once more-

 

on Ancestor Night.