It is the night that chills
And brings the visitors of the past.
It is the half-moon’s glow
That brings the half-light’s shadow
And creates choreography of sadness
Along the walls and ceiling of the heart.
It is the child who sees
The puppet show of shadows
And looks out for the Bogey-man
Within the far off cupboard
Where noises creep and peep
And voices seep so shallow.
It is the night that chills.
The child dances with shadows
And the choreography is of death.