In The Pumpkin Patch

In the local pumpkin patch,
By light of harvest moon,
I watch the tumult of the earth,
And carve a hallow tune.

The jet black sky, an onyx cloak,
Wrapped tight around my shoulders,
The frosted air bites at my face,
As my soul snuffs and smoulders.

I shudder with emotion,
Charged, cold, into me by night,
As my bones convulse with power,
And my blood drains, pale white.

Through the vast expanse of shadow,
Crafted by a pale hand,
I sell every breath into the patch,
And meet death, waiting for my land.