Jack O

Born from rot beneath the soil,

A seed once pure, now fed by spoil,

It grew on hate, it thrived on pain,

Watered by the human stain.

Now carved in flesh both black and torn,

The pumpkin bleeds, the damned reborn.

Each cut it bears, a slaughtered soul,

A hollow pit that time can't toll.

Behold the eyes, black orbs of death,

They watch the world steal its last breath.

In wars they feasted, in famine laughed,

A mirror to the blood we've grafted.

The mouth yawns wide, a gaping pit,

Where infants screamed and bodies split.

Its teeth are jagged tombstones cracked,

For every life the plague has sacked.

Within its core, no candle’s light,

But darkness born of endless night.

It feeds on sins, it feasts on dread,

A lantern raised to mock the dead.

The plague that ate the flesh of kin,

The knife that slid beneath the skin,

The starving hands that tore and clawed,

The burning flags of twisted gods.

All coiled within this jack of hate,

It whispers doom; it seals our fate.

A skull of pumpkins, rotten, charred,

On graves where hope lies deeply scarred.

No screams will reach its hollowed ear,

No prayers can quell what’s grown from fear.

It stands, eternal, in the field,

Where human hearts were once its yield.

And as the moon turns black as coal,

The lantern swallows every soul.

Each death, each war, each whispered sin,

Now fuels the flame that burns within.

For when the harvest moon doth rise,

The Jack of Night claims all that dies.

And every vile and corrupt fall,

Becomes its seed consuming all.

.-Hermit King-& Sean