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Rated: ASR | Prose | Death | #515394
A dark poem of death and the worries surounding the idea of the undead.
A shallow grave is dug.
A body burnt, scarred and twisted sits on the side.

A man in a black suit and dark glasses, top hat lowers the body into the ground.
He shovels in the dirt.
All the while he prays that the body stays put, worrying that it will rise like the Phoenix from the ashes.

He grins satisfied that the job is done.
He walks away.
© Copyright 2002 Bastlyn (UN: bastlyn at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Bastlyn has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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