Ode to the Dead.

(First shot at iambic pentameter. Kudos to Shakespeare, it’s not easy. This was written for submission to be included as an extra in a novel. Wasn’t accepted.)

Ode to the Dead.
By Wayne Hills

Lament the dead’s retreat thy hallowed grounds.
The living’s fear is wrought with despair.
For all alive, a certain death abounds.

The hordes advanced. We flee in disbelief.
Pampered lives dissolve, no chance to repair.
Human’s broken society would get no relief.

Grab the child, canned food, some meager gear.
Carry all on ours backs, no room to spare.
Left to rot all else. Chattel held most dear.

Abscond from sound of death approaching.
Keep faith to find safe passage rare.
Upon our souls the horror encroaching.

In abandoned barn, or noxious sewage pipe.
Sleepless eyes locked in unending death stare.
We lay down our heads, steal flashes of respite.

Snap of twigs twix shuffle of decayed feet.
Panic overcomes frayed nerves worn bare.
Their inhuman sense tracks us, we are fresh meat.

She trips. I fall. They move so quick.
Teeth rip flesh. My chances at life are ne’re.
My blood and gore make skin grow slick.

All black, no light, my breath abated.
Hope for salvation go without prayer.
Undead quest for blood, are fully satiated.

I rise and I walk. I feel their desire.
To hunt the living a need I now share.
The quest for life’s blood fueled by hell’s fire.

She grieves for my loss, her love for me pales.
For I recall not her face, the scent of her hair.
My only desire, is to feast upon her entrails.

I search. They run. Locked in a never-ending trial.
Between life and death, a thin fabric tear.
Of love everlasting, and present reality’s denial.

—Fin—

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