It's not in your closet
Nor in your bed
If you look deeply in my eye
You'll see it's all in my head

I was killed
Multiple times
In multiple ways
By the same people
At the same place.

Successors of Solomon, wiser than wise
Guided by motions of stars in the skies
               Restoring our powers
               Through forests and flowers
With spells on our lips and a gleam in our eyes

Oh, weep for Adonais—he's undead!
    And hath been, lo! these interstitial years!
Yellow and black and pale and hectic red,
    His cockney mood consumptively careers.
Upon a bubbling Hippocrene he's drunk
    And dreaming, standing tiptoe on the brink
Of the wide world that sinks (Byron's a punk)
    As love and fame to nothingness do sink.
An anguished autumn wind doth howl a HOWL
    Of abject grief that sweeps the graveyard's stones.
The sickle moon observes the downy owl
    That eats a mouse from tail to skull and bones.
Zombie Allan Poe, who's green and obscene,
Is sobbing, "Happy Birthday Halloween!"

Should I write a poem about Halloween,
full of psychological horrors and gruesome things?

Like deep romantic wounds getting infected,
herpe kisses or Donald Trump getting elected?

I could lean on shuddery tropes, like haunted houses
or more real world threats, like cutthroat spouses.

I could make you look up scary looking words, like Syncretism.

gasp What caused that creek in the floor?!
Who’s that banging on the door?

Is that blood on that rag?
Is there a body in that bag?
Is that your husband in drag!?

Relax, have fun, chill-out,
Oh, better get a bowl of candy out.

Happy Halloween!
.
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Songs for this:
Monster Mash by Bobby "Boris" Pickett & The Crypt-Kickers
I Killed You by Tyler, The Creator

I feel like a ghost
I’m neither here nor there
Always within that in between

Filling up some unused space
Creaking floorboards beneath my feet

I’m that chill in the air

Barely there

A soft whisper

Ornate iron bars that twist and swirl
on windows of a stone Baroque house:
Their billowing lines flow and unfurl
like the linen of a wan lady’s blouse.

Late sun casts her umbra on the stone wall,
a dark bramble of shadowy vines
that cling to the plaster in ways that recall
hung forests of lost memory and time.

Into this dark wood I walk with my mind
to retreat into the past of this place
and see how far the clock I can unwind
for to pass through its pale numbered face.

There faces now greet me, spirits of old
who once walked this very same street.
They look astonished at how I was so bold
as to travel there to warmly them greet.

To be remembered and seen once again
is a gift for which they’ve waited a year.
For as this day fades, the dark windowpanes
between our two worlds turn into a gauzy frontier.

And so the veil of the quick and the dead
turns thinner for just a brief night
while the faces of those who’ve gone on ahead
to the other side shine their dim light.