Three rings of a bone punched with knives
Hangs from fang trees,
Replacing the once solid trees.

Each ring echoes through the air;
Each dripping of a substance, unknown;
Turned inside out.

Each one, a white surface.
Veins filled of crimson delight,
Running down slowly, but surely.

Underneath a raining sky,
Sometimes dreams
Turn it into blood.

Each tree, perfectly fine one morning,
Until screams echo through the air,
On the first of the month of Halloween.