Living is not certain
The devils hallows creek as the wind manhandles the trees.
The stench of October reeks intimidation amongst the other months.
Pumpkin patches stain orange to the dry dead earth this time of year.  
But we proceed along the as crow flies.
The witch in the forrest is dangerous,they say
Clearing 18 towns and draining blood from 97 head of sheep.
Her spells are claim to subdue any man she pleases.
But we proceed on against the blistering wind.
My 2 lasting companions come armed with only a knife, a bible, and a blessing from the pope himself.
the journey here killed my other 48 men.
Our bodies are drained of everything and our feet are rotted to the shoes we walk on.
But we proceed on past the drab pumpkins
We break camp for the night but don't make a fire. In fear we might wake the evil that lives in the forest.
Deprived of food and water we have no choice
but to proceed on in hatred vengeance.
The land we once farmed and lived is now dust and I blame the witches plague.
The best thing now is the bitter cold pumpkin that fills my groaning stomach.
We huddled for warmth that night and I silently came to a conclusion. I was dead before I woke.
Orange stained to the dry dead earth.