halloween poetry

she said
and my name is truthful
why are the things that have no death
if the red slayer think he slays
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
for then without
she might have known it in the earlier spring
it was many and many a year ago
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
sleep, gray brother of death
uplifting, as the wind blew
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
tell me not