Pale white hands reach up
Groping through soil into
Air.
They force their bodies from graves
Rotting from decay, new ones still
Locked in the clutches of rigor mortis
Arms push, weak with disuse
And neglected by former souls
Who have long left the world
Cold wind blows harshly against
Their colder gray flaking skin
Skeletons against green grass
Eyes, hollowed by decomposition
Are mere sockets for writhing worms,
The undead brushes them off
Inside their poor sunken brains
A virus pulses with new growth
Stretching out its deadly tendrils
They lumber to live, stumbling,
New born toddlers learning to walk
But driven by feral savage instincts
Blood...they mumble
Eat...they whisper
Kill...they chant
A billion strong, a million more
Rising from the ground
And into the dead of night they walk
...
Alas my friends
This is our fate, to be
Contaminated by the undead
YOU ARE READING
Tears Of The Rose
PoetryA. Ton. Of. Random. Poems. Just warning you. The poem that inspired the title of this book: Tears of the Rose A rose Is a prickly thing Armed with barbed thorns Stinging like thousands of merciless Bees that hover protectively Over their prize. Rose...
