Home > Creative Writing > Poetry
Created on: August 11, 2011 Last Updated: August 15, 2011
Rage, rage, rage -
the tolling of the undead
is overwhelming
stagnant, smelling of death and rotting flesh.
Hunger, hunger, hunger!
It burns more fiercely than their momentary flash of life
when families huddled around tables with cooked visions,
a daughter who looked at her mother with love,
now the milky lens is content on destruction.
Wander, wander, wander!
Aimlessly, in a husk of misery
like an unconscious coma, the restless nightmare.
Can you hear me in there, dad?
Can you remember who you once were?
Nothing.
Darkness, darkness, darkness!
Consumed by a desire like that of a vampire.
It lingers in the pit of the stomach,
rancid like oatmeal,
coerced by the mayfly maggots.
Rot, rot, rot!
We live in a shit-storm now,
the winds of change that once flourished
promising hope for a better future
is now smell of death and evacuation.
Too late for the world
to go back to that picturesque panorama,
the perfect life where people were normal,
walking hand in hand, lovers would kiss,
children playing at the park,
birds chirping in the trees.
Lost, lost, lost!
Our beloved earth is but a shadowed husk,
desert, sand, broken buildings,
littered with the undead,
we cannot eat, we cannot sleep,
darkness means death,
death means undeath,
Run! Sister is coming again,
she knows we are in here!
Mommy, when can we go outside again?
Not for a long time, dear, no one is left.
It's not safe Annmarie ...
I miss my daddy! I know, my baby, I know!
But daddy is not here anymore, he went with the angels.
No he isn't! You Lie! He's right out there waiting for me!
Despair, despair, despair!
No help is coming, no rescue is planned.
No military with guns can help us,
we are on our own! It is everyone for themselves!
My daughter was attacked today,
she never even made it out of the yard!
Her loving father crushed her neck,
ingested her little angelic face,
my tears are bittersweet
as I bury the flagpole in his brain!
Too late, too late, too late!
My family is gone -
undead and unyielding,
they thrash themselves against the doors,
trying to get in to me ...
my little girl is out there even now,
I can sense her sadness but she can't control
that she has to feed ...
I slowly walk out ...
and grab my little girl,
picking her up, my little princess that she was,
I am crying, waiting for her,
inviting her to take my life -
so I can be with my baby again.
We are a family once more ...
all I care about is being
a family once more.
I don't want to live without them ...
it is too much to bare ...
kill me.
Learn more about this author, William Wraithe.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.
Below are the top articles rated and ranked by Helium members on:
Poetry: The undead
No one saw the sparrows fall
or noticed when they ceased to call.
For weeks their flinty beaks were still,
unable to
by Pegs
What happened on the barren field,
So strange and still at night?
What happened on the murky plain,
That
Rage, rage, rage -
the tolling of the undead
is overwhelming
stagnant, smelling of death and rotting flesh.
Hunger, hunger,
by Roy Blokker
I sat beside a hollow tree
And gave myself a fright.
My enemy turned out to be
A creature of the night.
He sat there for the
Resurrection
Lover of past poems
it pains me to inform you
of the recent demise of verse.
On Saturday, September 25th,
View All Articles on: Poetry: The undead