Weaning The Hallow (Tribute To Halloween)

Cover me now, in the twilight's 'cat-fur' descent,
Black-cat silk to sooth the prickled nodes of chill.
I feel the backwards tow of forward 'casting' bent,
And oiled anoint, spill of spell, tug of phantom tail.

I hear whisks of straw brooms, on front porches,
Scratching at dusts that bear slippered foot-print.
I hear an owl that speaks Latin, eyes like torches,
And there, bats like butterflies with teeth like flint.

All this because the moon has a darkened glide,
A darker side and cemetary soils of mystery plus.
Then my neighbor, with winged moustache hides,
When he sees me outside walking my dog thus!

Weirder by hour I do confess, time to wean hallow,
Too much fortean refrains compound in idle reigns.
I'll pencil a pentagram around my name to mellow,
Walk circles under a tall ladder to ease my pains.

Garner no 'fits' in musty grave-stones of my puzzle,
I think the world slipped a disc looking three-sixty.
Now the free-spinning view is ready for a muzzle,
I'll pretend to be normal, in dumbfound eccentricity!

TBollinger