Dale and the Cool Shadows

 Dale and the Cool Shadows

In the blistered hush of Florida nights, Where the air sweats fear and the heat bites, A doll named Dale stirs in the attic gloom— A grin stitched wide like a cracked tomb.

He was carved for laughter, for stage‑lit cheer, But something colder crawled in his veneer. Now his wooden heart ticks wrong, possessed, By a whispering hunger he’s never confessed.

The sun scorches him like a mortal sin, Its humid claws clawing at his painted skin. He loathes the daylight’s burning sprawl— The Florida heat that tries to melt his drawl.

So he creeps where the cool shadows pool, Past the porch, past the pines, past the old church school. He drinks the darkness like a sacred rite, A puppet baptized in the absence of light.

In the shade he murmurs secrets low, Words no living throat should know. His glassy eyes gleam black and hollow— A promise that the shadows will always follow.

And if you hear tapping beneath your bed, Or feel cold fingers brush your head, Know Dale has slipped from the sun’s cruel reach— And found you in the shadows he loves to breach.