On Halloween’s Eve, the sky folds in on itself,
bruised and trembling, as if it knows what’s to come.

Lanterns flicker like tired souls
whispering through hollow trees,
each flame a fragile breath of the forgotten.

The air smells of damp leaves and distant fires,
like memories burning too quietly to scream.

The moon leans closer tonight,
its pale gaze a confession,
it’s too haunting—by every shadow it casts.

Inside, it is always October,
a season that clings to the bones like grief,
the air heavy with what was never said.

Outside, the world wears its darkness like a costume,
but inside, the shadows linger long after the lights go out.
No mask fits anymore.

You can hear death tapping at the windows,
polite, patient, knowing
you’ve been expecting it all along.

In the dark, even the heartbeat feels unfamiliar,
like an echo you don’t recognize—
not yours, but someone who didn’t make it through.

The mind unravels in quiet corners,
thoughts sharp as broken glass,
reflecting a face that can’t be saved.

There is a silence that tastes like goodbye,
where the weight of living presses heavier
than the thought of leaving.

And still, you wait,
caught between the ache for release
and the fear that even in death,
you’ll carry the ghost of this pain.

"Between the Masks and the Silence"
by Skye Jordan

2024 - Licensed under
Creative Commons
Attribution (4.0)

Click here for how to give credit and other conditions.