Party with the Dead

In the thick late autumn fog
I heard screams at Oakwood Cemetery
Twas the declaration of the grotesque
Moss covered graves leading to
Hell's Gates, a legacy guarded by
a wrought iron fence.
Visons of the dead dance in my head,
Writing my name in blood on
Granite crosses, weathered cenotaphs
and twisted oaks (the woods are alive).
A wolf moon is in the constellation of Mortis,
follow the pageantry in black,
mourning the living.
Cold, bony grasp,wet earth and memories
Eye sockets of nothingness.
Denizens of perdition
Howling with mouths full of maggots.
Revolting harlequins,
Resurrected by the power
Of morbid curiosity.
Nefarious grimaces,
psychotic eyes aglow
on the left hand path.
Celebrate the ways of ghouls
With Ancient Ones,
Beckoning you
To a tenebrous arena
Of fire, bone and depravity.