A Horror Poem by Mark Andrew Heathcote
Doors that need their hinges fixed and silenced are restless, flee-bit dogs with muzzled growls? Till on the porch, the neighbourhood wolfhounds land dressed as werewolves; through the eyelet peeping, garbed as vampires, some are moaning. And are the living dead that's left their graves, thus we answer with sharpened wooden staves, to slay them before their decomposing can go any further, but these zombies are laughing as we muster the courage to parlay and avert any carnage offering silver, chocolate smarties they fill their eager palms and wave goodbye till next year, close your doors and fortify.
Mark Andrew Heathcote is adult learning difficulties support worker. He has poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies both online and in print.
