Her spirit was restless tonight She needed to ride,
Thoughts and old memories twisted inside.
Thundering hooves Night wind moving so swift,
And he her prized possession a birthday gift.
Time seemed endless even though midnight approached,
What was that? This time of night a coach?
Full speed it came swirling dust in its wake,
Hide she thought but it was much too late.
Aye, my Night Wind gather your speed,
Quickly, quickly before they come upon me.
But the faster she traveled, the faster it came,
Teasing, taunting, playing a game.
The coach could not follow in the graveyard ahead,
To close the tombstones of those who lay dead.
But no still it came a ghostly apparition,
The driver was death and he was on a mission.
A blood-spattered butcher knife lay beside him on the seat,
And a severed head lay halfway in a pillowcase at his feet.
Fresh blood still oozed he was not long dead,
The eyes had seen her she screamed and screamed waking in her bed.
Shivers overtook her so very real it seemed,
What a relief when she realized was nothing but a bad dream.
But was it really? She looked at the clock,
At midnight the hands had stopped.
The chilling howl of a wolf from the graveyard the sound,
Speaking of the tasty morsel it found.
No longer could she sleep her fear she could not hide,
The dirt on her legs was proof she had been along on death’s ride.
© Cynthia Clark