The sun sits high upon the trees as the sky bleeds a soft rose.
The branches are the wind’s flute as it whistles and it blows.
The mice, they scurry along. The deer, they graze the field.
The crows fly above the cemetery that is not carefully concealed.
Though in the day time it is beautiful, the night brings a present.
A gift—more like a curse—one that is not quite so pleasant.
The people scramble as darkness comes and the sleeping dead awaken.
A lifetime of sweet slumber now a gruesome sight forsaken.
The moon cast a ghostly appearance upon the walking dead.
Their limping walks and bulging eyes and rotten skin that shed.
How they hunger for the flesh that is not rotten or deceased.
They hunger for the living. How they long for that feast!
Each night they emerge from their grave where they sleep,
To search for beating hearts that call to them to reap.
When stumbling upon a living creature they snarl at their game.
And rip them from their very lives without a hint of shame.
The thing is, though, once you’ve fallen and you have no beating heart,
What once was prey becomes the predator, the bullseye becomes the dart.