Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Our Halloween hayride rolled
slowly toward the dark
top of Fog Mountain's cold--
whisp'ring sounds so stark.
It must have been the icy
hand that tore like claws--
when wildly we tried to see
if it was in the straw.
Our driver shook as he drove--
the fog crept on each one;
then we gasped when at the cove,
horror had been spun.
The mountain's fog held its lore
of flaming-eyed beasts,
which hid, and sneaked, and waited for--
Halloween hayride guests.
The wagon pulled by horses
that raised up in fear then bolted,
and riders' screams ran from wolves' forces
perhaps the best unfolded.
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Author Notes
A story in a poem about a Halloween hayride.
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