Cynthia's Home of Many Things 
  Cynthia Jones

 [ My Poetry List ] | [ Poetry Poem ] | Today's Poetry | Sign In

poetryandshortstories10
  Sign Guestbook
  Read Guestbook

 The Living Dead (Pt.1)

It's a cold windy night
there is a storm brewing,
I walk down a lonely street,
there isn't anyone in sight.

I feel an eerie presence,
my stomach feels a little unsettled,
my heart and soul tell me
I'm not supposed to be here.

I hear footsteps behind me,
I don't stop to look,
I keep walking faster,
the footsteps get louder.

I turn to look....
nothing.

Is it my mind playing tricks on me?

Probably.

Maybe it's the wind howling,
I try to convince myself that it is.

I start walking again
then....
I hear voices, unknown voices.

What are they saying?

My ears start to ring,
I'm overcome with fear,
I start to run....
the voices get louder,
then are muffled by the strong wind.

"What do you want?" I scream out.

But the voices don't answer me.

I try to find somewhere to hide,
I run into a densely lit alleyway.

I run into a brick wall
and it knocks me down.

Copyright Cynthia Jones
Apr.26/2004


  Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades




Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem

Comments

 Email Address

 

Vote for this poem
 [ My Poetry List ] | [ Poetry Poem ] | Today's Poetry | Sign In




©2000 - 2022 Individual Authors. All rights reserved.