I was a baby-faced eagle who woke in January. Flying near a screen, I had to stop before I could even start. I witnessed barricaded doors being torn apart. Subjects wielded weighty flagpoles. They smashed at the foundation; the shards were yelled out whole. Guards were knocked into crying arms, and eagles looked around for warm hands. Later, I learned what occurred on the front yard. Their king smirked as he guided their gullible fears. He tied himself to the cross as it dripped wet with Christ’s cold tears. I knew their king wore a painted crown in the doorway. Now, I see a grown child, and he’s admiring tanks on his birthday.
— Ryan Muenzer
This article appears in Halloween.