It began in the distant, superstitious past.
When things decayed and wouldn’t last.
The musty smells of autumn signaled the day,
When the fertility of summer would go away.
When long nights of cold, hunger and death,
Would replace the plenty of summer’s path.
Spirits were many and filled the earth.
Appeasing them brought happiness and mirth.
Ignoring them brought death and pain.
Fear of the great unknown did reign.
Religion tried to control our fear,
Ritual and order would keep us dear.
Science unraveled the darkest myth,
Rendering them harmless, lacking pith.
But old customs grow and evolve.
With science our superstitions to resolve.
With it too, our fantasies to grow,
Our old fear of death into a macabre show.
While spirits once meant fertility and life.
They are now all blood and gore with an editor’s knife.
With so many undead to kill in so little time.
We’ve lost the value of shock to unwind.
When death has no value we will succumb,
To the evil within us—let it come!
Copyright 2002 © Ronald W. Hull
Photo: House of Frankenstein
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