by John Grey
Every night is Halloween now,
each creature masked in its own darkness,
prowling the shabby streets,
the good long preyed into extinction,
even the most insidious evil
vulnerable to something even worse
lying in wait around the next corner.
Once I stood behind each wavering face
as it stared at its reflection,
nudging my side into the grin, the eyes,
while an angel prodded from the other.
Now, they have the mirrors to themselves,
expressions slinking like reptiles
across the glass,
each sin stacking up behind the other
until the face is the sum of them.
What can I do but pound my fists
deep in the fiery caverns,
shake the earth a little
like it’s all Los Angeles.
The fires down here
are spurting from my forehead.
Hell hath no fury
like a demon scorned.
Copyright © 2010 by