On an Old Woodcut
The preacher doles damnation
to sheep outside the flock
who ramble where they will
and crop the sweetest grass.
But every leaf’s a sin,
their pleasures lying phantoms—
strays caught in brambles,
to be torn by lurking fangs.
The huddled worshippers nod,
shudder, and murmur amens
on the stale indoors air,
bleat psalms of protection.
Behind each shoulder stands, unseen,
the skeleton they will be.
— Thomas Gorn
Halloween 2026, Day 16