jack o’lantern.

the corners of the shelf 
are emaciated, dust settles
into the mould
and here, for years, I have sat —

the holidays are long, a gruelling 
Winter where warmth on the wall
is not easily found
my hands are twisted by the cold
and I can hear the children, in sheets
and masks — a laughing pretence of
the monsters that once laid beneath their
beds

the skies are dotted with a million
stars, constellations to guide you home
much like the freckles on my face
but whilst the scripture was signed, and
the soul stolen away
the heart remains, waiting —

a blood-stained olive branch
in need of a carpenter, to carve its
vestiges like the lanterns of All Hallows Eve —
kind hands that would trim away the
weeds, and root out the hostility
leaving nothing but a burning flame.

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