Prayer of the Undead

The sorrow of my heart, damp and heavy, breaks my soul. I am overtaken with sickness. Life cannot be lived in this swamp, this miasma. Weeping, tearless face, encrusted stone over this sepulcher, can you move? Can you be moved? Will you not roll away?

All that’s left inside this empty husk is undying hate, ruminating decay—the stench builds around me. I see myself with loathing, these appendages like rotten meat, these hands like foul lizards rooming in some corpse; they turn around, stretching themselves in their comfortable home, and so in the shadows of the tomb I see the mummified remains moving. I watch in terror.

Around me are dead bodies, or do I merely imagine it so?

When you die, they gag you, they hide you, and they leave you in silent darkness.

In the darkness I shout, “O God, let there be light.”

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