Harvest Moon

Dark music rises in the weeping willow trees. Barren branches whip into sync with the breath of the wind. Dead souls are called by the howl of the moon. They dance in ritual with a cracking tone. 

Snapping to the rhythm, they begin their hunt. They sniff for the innocent, nauseating scents reflecting life. They listen for a pulse, piercing drainage from the wrist. Hysterical uproars echo,  a maddening hunger strikes the crowd. 

Salivating with sewage, they tear at rational flesh. Their bellies are full, regurgitating sick laughter and hate. The feast continues, as they devour the weak. Witnessing the perverted harvest, a solemn owl falls dead. 

They light their cigarettes with flammable blood and taste lost hope, it's sweet in their throats. They chant repetitively in underground voices, "Ashes to ashes." And all of the children fall down.

They pick their teeth with the bones of their slaughter, and excrete tarry waste on the remains. A weathered crow lands watching insanity's secret. He claps his tattered wings at the sight of love's burial ground. 

The moon begins to set, and a broken window  seeps repulsion at the sight of the sunrise. The smell of burnt fur begins to rise, and their coffins are dropped like an ax.