There were candles
Placed in a row
Along concrete floors
On the outside
Where doormats laid
Neatly nestled
Below porch-light rays
After dusk

From flickering bulbs
Overhead
While the August moon
Reached its zenith
And fireflies danced
Above cornfields
As each figure paced
Toward our steps

With lanterns held
By their fists
In silent approach
Seeming shapeless
Yet appearing real
Through that window
Looking back like heads
Missing eyes

Only faces there
Turning white
Under dusty robes
Nearly floating
Holding charcoal gusts
Soon collected
Forming spidery hands
Pointing up

Marking prying souls
Who dare stare
Or glance down too long
At such evil
Bringing danger back
Bearing judgment
Losing all but hate
On their march

Being ghosts
Of what still remains
Stalking innocent lands
Newly tainted
Hearing crickets chirp
Trailing footprints
Coming ever so close
Feeling home.

• J. Pigno