The Dead Awake
The grave is cracked, the stones are torn.
The lids of wood, are split and raised.
The earth exhales, the soil shakes.
The dead return, with empty eyes.
Their steps are slow, their voices gone.
Their breath is rot, their skin is pale.
They drag the ground, they claw the dark.
They follow close, they do not rest.
The night is wide, the air is thin.
The silence breaks, with shuffling limbs.
They crowd the roads, they crowd the fields.
They walk as one, they walk as none.
We run, we scream, but still they come.
We beg the dawn, but dawn is far.
They do not tire, they do not fall.
Their hunger grows, it will not end.
And when at last, they find the door.
They press, they push, they scratch, they bite.
The living hide, but still they know.
The dead are here, and will not go.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
Creepy, creepy, creepy. Good job.