(08) - The Brethren

A stirring.
-Midnight-
The poppies cling to life
On two fresh graves.
An old man,
A young man.
Weak,
Strong,
Both changed.

The ground moves,
The fresh graves shift.
Dark, moist dirt
Hands reach through,
Clawing the air,
Grasping for the freedom
Of the waking dead.

Two figures, pale in the moonlight,
-Pale in any light.-
Stand. They sense each other,
Cold without blood.
They also sense
The approach of a dozen others,
Like them, yet older.
-Older in existence, for
What they are now
Knows no age.

A shrill cry echoes
In the still air of the graveyard.
Tombstones,
Seemingly solid images
Of the past,
Quiver at the sound.
There are no words in the cry,
For none of these understand,
Yet there is meaning.
The two figures shift.
They need no words:
They are driven now
By that unholy appetite;
Human blood.

by James Grengs

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