Living Dead
by Mike Berger
On scene specters sings solemn laments
to a blackened sky.
Rumblings of voodoo drums echo through
the black night.
Eerie mist hangs in the air blanketing the
jungle floor.
A blood Lotus turns its comely face to the
crescent moon.
Jungle beasts creep away fleeing the
ominous scene.
At midnight, the living dead rise from their
graves.
Hideous, necrotic things; stinking of rotting
flesh.
Sitting around the flickering flames of a
campfire, they languish.
They swamp ghost stories while smoking
cigars and drinking a Bud.
© 2011 Mike Berger
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