deepundergroundpoetry.com

March of the Dead

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I walk the cemetery alone
Watched the sun set hours ago

Fog drifts in, blanket for the bones
Cozy and warm, they wait down below
Blows like a storm, my hatred it grows
I'm changing in form, fading like a ghost

The demon taking over
I peer over both shoulders
Feel a tingle up my spine
Spirits mingling behind

Corpses brood beneath the moon
As I intrude among the tombs
Across which tortured souls are strewn
In a morbid mood of gloom, misfortune blooms

Following me up the trail
Draw me deeper, limbs are frail
Columns creeping, faces pale
Fallen reaping, fate assails
Joints creaking
Fluids leaking

I brazenly face
The unwavering array
In varying states of decay
Misshapen, led astray

Leading an army of the dead
The damned souls filled with dread
Above their tombs they tread
Risen from their loamy beds

Cursed with unfriendly possession
Birthed by unending depression
A certain unbending aggression
They await their pending purging session

Herald of horror
Harbinger of carcasses

Straddling the border
As darkness harnesses

Dreaded lord of sutures
Head of a hoard of butchers

With this awful entourage
I press onward through the fog

Like a solemn synagogue
They start to groan and sing along

In infallible balance, with audible malice

Enchanting or cursing?
It really matters not
Scandalous urging
Won't veer from the path I walk

Adrift in a crypt
I slip into a rift
Their singing uplifts
Like a tingling kiss

Granted gratitude from the grave
For the gruesome gift I gave
The gathering of gore gallivanting in the glade

With rasping throats gasp, sightlessly drool
Embrace the cold grasp of geists and ghouls

Deafening clatters excite
Reveling shadows in the moonlight
Reassembled assembly of fright
Resembles an emblem of night
While threatening, they invite