Before my eyes, the road and sky
are black alike — the stars snuffed out
by God who’d left his post for bed,
who took the moon and left the dark

and me. The trees trapping my car,
the sky is lost amid their leaves,
I hear the whispers in the wind
that aren’t alone in watching me.

I lock my doors and shake. The road
has taken me to graves where fog
sits still upon the ground and where
the angels guard the dead — how now

have they forgotten those that live?
And why? — The terror breeds! I turn
my head and hazy figures walk
the earth and orbs of light appear

and wane and come again, now close,
yet closer still; the shadows reach
for me. I gun the engine, break
an angel’s arm, its marble arm,

and speed toward the distant gate.
A frantic eye upon the ghouls
I flee the dark – the moon is back
– and Cuba Road is left behind.