Broomsticks

When witches ride the whirly wind
And monsters stalk the breeze
Our tale of horror will begin
With the rustling of the trees

In a forest dark with musty smells
And limbs, that grab and reach
Where sunlight tries but can’t get in
Down through the birch and beech

Where creeks and cracks echo long
Startling the quiet and still
When slithering things slide along
And you shiver with a chill

A heart beat stops a breath exhaled
The horror sneaks about
Goosebumps crawl across your skin
Inside you scream and shout

Copyright © 2022 B. F. O’Connor

Published by

B. F. O'Connor

Born and raised in the idyllic environment of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. A rural paradise perfect for a roving childhood. Now living in the desert southwest, with a flock of parrots, a pigeon, and Three dogs.

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