AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

Sunset brings shadows with the night,

Birds of prey springing into flight.

As a hue of red paints the night air,

A high-pitched howl sounds too near.

Residents hide behind locked doors,

As trails of blood seep through the floors.

The mansion rumbles with laughter,

Loud music reaches each rafter.

Gargoyles watch as quiet as a mouse,

As limousines line a path to the house.

At the harsh stroke of midnight,

Dancers freeze in the moonlight.

THE DEAD GAME

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