The Death March

The train whistle, I hear it bellow through

the night, a deep, throaty whine, purring like

a beast in slumber. On my red bike

I follow the sound, watching as a few

figures rise from the shadows. They creep and

some even stagger. A man passes by,

his eyes burning with a vacant gaze. Why

I pause I will never understand.

 

He leads the scrappy band of beggars to

my neighbor’s porch. One bleeds from the head while

another hides in a crimson cape. Miles,

it seems like miles between us, but I feel

their knocks, slow and measured. The grey door peels

open. “Trick or treat.” The horn blows anew.

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