Halloween

The shadows covering the abbey
Scream from within.
The bells ring,
But the monks sleep on,
Demons flying like lesions over their skin.
On the doorstep, a young man is bowed
In prayer.
His exile is one meant for the dead.
The cold wind is drowning him,
But he must--he must!--last the night.
The asphalt responds to his prayer
With luminescence and cold.
Salvation comes at the moon's flick of a baton
And song, like an unraveling cloud,
Covers the sky.
God, to the young man, suddenly dies.