First Blood
by Nat Whiston
I love this season the peace it brings,
I hear in the distance the church bell rings,
The leaves that paint the floor deep red,
A fitting cover for the dead,
Falling down across degraded tombs,
Screeching of the angry crows that loom,
Ivy twists around my feet,
My heart in the quiet is like a loud drumbeat,
Here I find my special place,
Besides the corpses and headstones, I face,
Waiting for October to arrive,
The time when brown leaves thrive,
When the dead are no longer forgotten,
The fruit bought fresh no longer rotten,
When masks are worn to ward off evil,
Embracing a power that feels primaeval,
I find peace in the cold,
Held tight by the powers of old,
A graveyard deserted how I like it best,
To ignore reality and find my rest,
The body is heavy, but I've got time,
Eventually, my craft I'll soon refine,
For now my victims will just share a grave,
There is no soul left in which to save,
Colours red and orange conceal my mess,
That I've killed many before, no one will guess,
Covered my clothes in splashes of blood,
Mixed in with dirt and clumps of mud,
As I walk the grounds on Halloween night,
People see me in costume and horrible sight,
Another year is nearly gone,
But this year I intend to carry on,
My body count is low by my spirits are high,
And all it took was for a person to die
I hear in the distance the church bell rings,
The leaves that paint the floor deep red,
A fitting cover for the dead,
Falling down across degraded tombs,
Screeching of the angry crows that loom,
Ivy twists around my feet,
My heart in the quiet is like a loud drumbeat,
Here I find my special place,
Besides the corpses and headstones, I face,
Waiting for October to arrive,
The time when brown leaves thrive,
When the dead are no longer forgotten,
The fruit bought fresh no longer rotten,
When masks are worn to ward off evil,
Embracing a power that feels primaeval,
I find peace in the cold,
Held tight by the powers of old,
A graveyard deserted how I like it best,
To ignore reality and find my rest,
The body is heavy, but I've got time,
Eventually, my craft I'll soon refine,
For now my victims will just share a grave,
There is no soul left in which to save,
Colours red and orange conceal my mess,
That I've killed many before, no one will guess,
Covered my clothes in splashes of blood,
Mixed in with dirt and clumps of mud,
As I walk the grounds on Halloween night,
People see me in costume and horrible sight,
Another year is nearly gone,
But this year I intend to carry on,
My body count is low by my spirits are high,
And all it took was for a person to die
Nat Whiston is from Birmingham, England and first started writing in her first voluntary job with Magazine Voice 21 as a feature writer and reviewer. When her health took its toll, her writing took a backseat. But now, intent on reinventing herself, she posts stories and reviews on her Chrystal Vixen page. She also started a YouTube channel for her reviews as well. She has drabbles being published in a selection of Black Ink Publishing's Anthologies in 2021. And she was also featured in the Summer edition of SirensCall e-zine. Her favourite author is Clive Barker.