to play games on the visitors. A smokey hand
laid silently over the top of the marble headstone.
Fallen strands of black hair swaying as footsteps
march in the snow. The crunch of ice, they jump
and I laugh.
Slinking through the winter's chill, crawling
up behind them. A fingernail dipped in crimson
rests on a blue coated shoulder. They know nothing
of the true horror in death.
Some say I drowned in a sinkhole. Others claim
I died after killing my husband. No. It was much
more horrible than that. A foggy figure rises
from the oldest headstone. I raise a slender
blood dripped finger to the garnet lips,
red eyes meeting red eyes. A wicked smile,
curling at the corners of bloody lips. They snap
photos, those naive fools. The bluecoat turns,
realizes and feels the chill of my wrath.
I breathe in the life, oh the flesh, tormented
eyes wide, he is a statue standing so low
to my magnificence. Finally they realize
and I laugh.
Floating back to my stone as I watch
the weaklings scatter like mice from a bomb.
(Note about the poem. I'm not sure about the end, but I like the creepiness this is going toward. This is actually inspired by the song The Here and After by Jun Miyake.)
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