the whole way home was well lit
a street light every ten paces
fifteen paces for twelve-year-olds
safe in that direction until
we came upon the house
the one around the field
along the way
where it was dark all the time
it was where we closed our eyes and just ran for it
to reach the light again
past the creepy old saltbox house, flaked with white paint
half dead
gray bones exposed throughout
tuffs of grass aged the place even more
I would hold my breath while I ran
every time
so the old lady couldn’t steal my soul
for her pet demons who loved scared young boys
blue eyes were her favourite
there was no way I was going in that jar sitting there
against the second window sill on the right
it was covered in green like dirty mold, I can still see it crawl
along the colours of Halloween
the more dead, the more October
the old lady’s favourite month, we kids used to bet
without even seeing her face
only a glimpse of her wiry gray hair
her hunched posture
on a gray road
on a gray night
during a gray memory
kind of
maybe…
sometime ago
Earth To Ash 
Thank you for all this praise. it makes it worth it. Yes, just one thought that leads to a full experience in the form of a poem. Most of my poems are shot from something deep inside, so I just go with it. Free writing is a way I look at that style. Appreciate the read and your comments.
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