Some more poetry, slightly morbid
The dead
From the graves of twilight pain
Rise the dead
Standing besotted by the rain
Ready to be fed
With bangs the gates are blocked
They do not hold
Their cage has been unlocked
Death has made them cold
Bushes traitorously shiver
Young are hidden
The dead stop, they quiver
By hunger they're driven
A collective mindless advance will begin
Blood will fly
A wine of deep sanguine
It will stain dry
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