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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Horror/Scary · #2197111
The day the zombies came.
Fifteen years ago, exactly on this day,
zombies attacked at dawn in northern
Arizona, where I live.  It seems like
yesterday.  So return with me now
to that frightful morning…

It had been a warm and quiet night.
The sky was ebon black and the
stars looked like you could grab
a handful at will.  Once again,
the heavens had stolen my 
heart.  Sleep then came
shortly after midnight
without dreams. 

Then, as night
was folding up its
rollaway bed, I heard
a peculiar scratching sound
on my window—that had startled
me awake.  I had only wanted early
morning repose, and perhaps some REM 
sleep in which dreams could dally and ply.

Yet the eerie scratching persisted, grew
louder and more forceful; more threatening.
Add to that were painful moans, as if some
agony en masse had control of all reality. 
Suddenly glass shattered with a roar of
evil; I bolted from my bed and dashed
mad-like out into the dawn, barefoot,
tee-shirt and sweatpants, weaving
like inebriation among zombies, 
a blood-thirsty mob of decrepit
skin and crooked yellow teeth.
Fear was a shroud of chain-
saw seizing, the crooked
zombie torso bend, the
drip of drool and maw
of hunger.

It was never going to 
be the same again—
just like it was before

40 Lines
Writer's Cramp
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2197111