by Iain Muir
On the night before all hallows
Or so the story goes,
If you sit in a church's shadows
The future you can know.
As midnight opens the day of the dead,
If you wait at the lych-yard gate
Through those gates, or so 'tis said,
Walk the shades of those soon to be late.
As midnight chimes from the steeple,
Through the gates they'll stalk:
An endless line of people
With souls outlined in chalk.
If you sit and watch until morning
Then from Fate's book you'll read,
Before all hallow's dawning,
All of the truth you need.
Have you the strength for the venture?
The courage to be shown?
What's the price of the indenture
If the face you see is your own?
© 2000 Iain Muir
Iain Muir lives in Central Europe, having gotten the
heck out of Africa. He tries to write science fiction, fantasy, and
poetry in between catching flights. He's sure that the time spent in
airports will cut decades off his time in purgatory.
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