By Nichole Hoehn

The sorrow dies
And the living cry
The dead walks beneath our feet
Under ground
The non-breathing live upon us
Their pulses do not beat
They are the nightmares of our dreams
They are the ones
Who make our skin crawl
But they are only our future
Disgusting beasts
Dead may they be
They are one of a kind
Because without them
What story would be left behind

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