January Dormatory

Tue, 01/14/2014 - 00:16 -- ejh12

Songs of the dying echo through the vents

Ringing alarms for the hermits.


Get out, get out; it's all coming in.

All the sickly, the zombified

Boarding themselves in their rooms


To Breed.


To sow the zombifying sickness into every one of you.


Get out, get out; it's cold and wet and dark outside

But in your hidey-hole, sickness is growing,

Grappling stringy, sticky arms for you.

Dripping and sapping, moaning and clawing.


Get out, get out; zinc can't save you now.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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