Revenge Of The Dead

Once upon a dank October, in the dark and once over, just the bark of a ‘rover’ was all you heard outside your door. When the moon never brighter suddenly there came a howler as of something rising higher, higher than the grave she wore. First a hand then another, wouldn’t dare tell your mother, as she rose she uncovered, uncovered herself from the floor. She stepped out from the dirt, with a heart filled with hurt, of someone who had shunned her worth and had burned her soul and singed. Then with her eyes filled with hate, she went to him to seal his fate, up in his room he would wait, wait to feel her revenge.

As she walked more like limping, suddenly there came a ringing just like Harold angels singing, singing at someone’s funeral. The moon turned black, her eyes bled, and the scar left on her head dripped crimson, crimson red like a rabid animal. She stumbled upon the house, and what scurried out was a mouse she kicked it, kicked it out, out of her way.

Right before her he slept, carrying the cause of tears she wept, in her hand a knife, a knife to bring him sudden death, death upon a grisly fate. She raised the knife and swung her best, but as the knife reached his chest she stopped and took a rest to look out on the rising sun. She was too late. Much to her dismay, she began to drift away, but only after did she say, she’d be back the next day quicker than this stand. Back in her grave, she lay, underneath the mushy land. A day went by but that night, out of the dirt shot, a hand.