Some nights I dream of zombies,
The gnashing, growling sort:
Faces twisted fearfully,
Devouring brains for sport.
Their clothes are torn and tattered.
Their hair is caked with mud.
Peeling skin drops off their bones;
From chalky lips pours blood.
Crypt-kept collaborators
Plotting my dark demise,
They eagerly pursue me,
Like some postmortem prize.
Each time that I awaken
I peer around my room
And faintly hear their echoes
Shuffling in the gloom.
The terror washes over,
Cool sweat beads on my skin.
Sleep returns uneasily,
My nerves are worn quite thin.
There is but one solution:
To dig a deeper grave,
Rebury all my worries,
And hope that they behave.
