BY DR. AGONSON
In the twisting halls of the ancient tomb,
buried in the shadows of un-death’s womb,
the desiccated corpse, lying forlorn,
waits for the dark summons to be reborn.
Silence infects the air with a stale musk
emanating from the long-rotting husk.
Nothing is left of it but old bleached bones.
However, it slowly rises and moans.
The layers of filth fly off as it stands.
In swirling cascading decent dust lands
upon the mason hewn floor of the crypt.
Off the dead, particles of dried flesh dripped.
Marching, it scours its labyrinth home,
seeking whomever in these halls now roam.
It hears their living breath, their stomping feet,
and seeks to, in battle, bring their defeat.
Clutching a rusted sword, it scrapes the stone,
dragging the weapon, it searches alone.
Victory is its hope to grow its ranks,
building soldiers from the bodies it banks.
Listen to my beautiful voice: