Author’s Note: This poem is inspired by  A Christmas Carol  by Charles Dickens, whose timeless tale of ghostly redemption continues to illuminate my path from suffering to healing. In the hush of night, the keys await, My trembling hands, my shifting fate. The typewriter stares with iron eyes, As shadows stir and spirits rise. I try to write of love and grace, But horror floods the empty space. Each letter typed, a haunted cry— Each sentence ends with Why? Why? Why? Then comes a knock, so...

The scariest day of the year for me Is the last of October, annually— When freaks and phantoms roam the night, Ghosts and ghouls and gangsters fly and fight. Witches, werewolves, wretches too, Monsters rise from crypt and cell. Creepy creatures knock at  doors. A punk arrives, dressed in cereal box and knife— I ask, “Who are you?” with wary grace. He grins and smiles and says, “Serial killer," then adds: “It's a pun, Don’t run. I’m a poet too.“   I hand out candy, one by one, And whisper,...

What does this old key unlock? you ask— Which key performs which hidden task? The one that fits my old front door? We don’t use that anymore. We used to turn cold metal tight, Now numbers glow with ghostly light. A digital code—each one unique— Replaces hinge that used to squeak. The key to my phone, my screen, my code, Opens the path where data flows. Apps and passwords guard the gate, Numbers decide my life, my fate. If I lose a key, I lose my way, My love, my life could drift away, Lose...