The Rise of the Dead
Night air feels thicker as the black clouds sink low,
Stone shadows twisting while icy winds blow.
Something feral it’s said, claws stain the ground,
An ancient hymn of destruction, how tragic it sounds.
Under sharp moonlight tendrils, each pale as bone,
Crypt concrete cracking, and old graves undone.
No priests to bring blessings, no souls there to save,
What emerges is hunger, coming straight from the grave.
Oh, the fingers, so bony, clawing at dirt and the clay,
Wretched stinking bodies, some weathered, some gray.
Cold shattered ribcages, their skulls look like stone,
The corpse army awakens, truly grimacing bones.
No warning was given, not a message relayed,
Just this ominous night, so many hours ’till day.
For the moment they’re held by the iron of the gate,
Yet the breadth and the depth, indicates soon too late.
The town bells ring warning, a deep bellowing chime,
Calls the masses stay huddled, as it’s reckoning time.
What dark chaos awaits, as this night will be long,
Prayers whispered in silence, as the dead sing their songs.
The dead have the numbers, yet too slow and unbound,
Desecration unholy, as they march through sacred grounds.
Strengthening rage, a thousand hands reach to take,
A final curse on the land, as the living did shake.
Like the rancid breath of the dying, the air now a plague,
The learned shout theories, some cast blame and mistake.
No answers revealed, why this curse, they’re not sure,
The dead have returned, as the mist on the moors.
Outside, the forest trees slowly bend, the rivers did freeze,
The crows and the owls fall silent in their trees.
Angry dogs fall to a whimper, while hooved beasts moan,
The ground begins shaking, and the iron fence groans.
Years of rust and decay on the bars of the gate
The dead leaning in, no longer will they wait
Hinges unhinged, then a loud metal screech
No doubt from beyond, for it was certain a breech
Then from crypt to the fields, from the tombs to our wells,
The rise of the dead, bringing scenes straight from hell.
Once our brothers and children, our sisters and wives,
Now marching in ranks, with their target, our lives.
Now comes this ravenous crew, life thoughts growing dim,
Thunderous quaking and shaking, our survival seems grim.
Churchly prayer has no power, nor do symbols, nor spells,
Violence marching, still the tolling of bells.
Somewhere in nowhere, when the graves first came undone,
When the bones without flesh, rose united as one
There the soil bled black, and within hours turned red
The living fell in a panic, ’twas the rise of the dead.
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