Dead of night
Walking through the mind
Whimpering screams of children
Bodies hidden to find.
Calling each victim
The run merely a walk
Deafening is silence
Only means which to talk.
Rarely the day comes
But maybe twice a year
The spirit drives the hunted
Guided through pain and fear.
Friday to accomplish the week
Until the thirteenth is the date…
Pray to reach the midnight clock
Before Evil seals your fate.
Pen And Paper Stories 