THE UNDEAD DEAD
Desolated and hollow,
A bitter truth they ought to swallow.
No shape, no form,
Only a presence, as severe as a storm.
Ceaselessly yearning to relive what is lost,
At times in pain and at times, frost.
Always lurking in the shadows,
Under your bed, or behind you, in the meadows.
Cloaking their innate desire to walk into the light,
Clinging on to the worldly life, tighter than tight.
Is that the destination?
Attainable yet unattained,
Maundering in the boulevard of darkness dead, yet un-dead.
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