There are candles that light up the eyes of the voodoo zombies, the bambi-legged grave-walkers among the drowsy fog and snakebite shots of vicious corn liquor at Alta Vista Cemetery.
Empty thoughts, reddening moonlight, a marble vase atop a broken tombstone, the banshee howls and screams for its dead and drowned child.
Wooden silhouettes for the slave graves, a sleek black rail and identical bench, a cat crawls toward a mouse, the grass whispers and there is no breathing, the trees look like skinny goblin arms, hazy and unholy clouds peek through the darkness.
A crypt apart from the cobblestone and metropolis of tombs, the golden-lettered mausoleum and intricate detail, scattered flowers, rotten Boat Orchids defiling a defined elegance and strange artistry, wet brick steps from a poem she loves, imposing guarding statues, frightened demons, a stern marker of Roman wealth and beauty, entirely unvisited by the unbaptized and the haunting spirits and wayward ghouls, no evil hand touches this stone, the unclear rain and an owl in the dark, the God bearing image, do not enter lest you be visited by a sanctified she-wolf of malicious rage and ruinous anger.