Art Copyrighted Ashley Nichole Jones
Undead Chant
by Cynthia E. Jones
Now that my true self has come alive
the day is not what I longer need.
My chants can be heard for the night;
it is my survival for which I feed.
Down the road, the bells they chime.
A sound of muse for death and dine
calling to the halls and tombs.
A resting place, though not for mine.
Dancing on the edge, a skipping wake;
I walk the earth steady and firm.
For death has found and tries to take
...what is not his. Out of reach I squirm.
Dripping wet colored with blood,
my thirst is undenied; emotions
flood, the dark is warm,
cradling me as if I died.
Copyrighted October 31, 2004 Cynthia E.Jones
Labels: poetry
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