Therapy Bits

When the moon bleeds pale through a torn black shroud,
And the wind shrieks thin like a mourning crowd,
The ghouls crawl forth from their earthen keep,
To feast on hearts that dare not sleep.

Through crooked trees the witches hum,
Their cauldrons hiss, their voices numb.
With spider’s breath and serpent’s bone,
They curse the dark to make it home.

Beneath a crypt of frost and stone,
The vampires stir, their hunger grown.
Red eyes gleam where the shadows coil—
They drink the dreams the dead once toil.

The ghosts drift by in funeral lace,
No eyes, no mouths, no human face.
Their whispers rot the mind to thread—
They envy the warmth of things long dead.

Then, all at once, the bells toll three,
The hour of death’s dark revelry.
They dance and wail in fevered trance,
In night’s unholy, endless dance.

And if you wake ‘fore dawn’s first light,
Pray hard you’ve not been marked this night.
For once they’ve found your mortal breath—
They’ll haunt your soul beyond your death.