by Mike Pollock
Darkness fell across slumbered wood,
Its nearness calling when it never should.
A blanket fog with thickness rolls
Over brush and tree its evil flows.
Eyes as bright as burning stars
Alerting creatures near and far.
Dead hands claw from dirt and mud
Beatless hearts, a thirst for blood.
A wail creeps from the broken maws
A thousand corpses from earth they crawl
One fleeting glimpse into the past
These dead will walk, and death they’ll cast.
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