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Resurrection

By Kater_Schiller All Rights Reserved ©

Horror / Poetry

Resurrection

The stale air around me grew cold,

colder, until it reached approximately

fifty-two degrees, give or take.

I have been laying still,

for what seems an eternity.

I can’t move.

Couldn’t if I wanted to.

Silence and pitch darkness,

my only companions, save…

What is this?  The walls, floor, ceiling –

all tremble as if it were

in the hands of a great giant.

I froze, though my natural state, now in terror!

The shaking and scraping interminable

Silence! my compatriot where have you gone?

Why have you fled before this scraping monstrosity?

My cranial nerves burned, but the rest froze

as my panic grew.

Presently the scraping ceased,

but it was a temporary relief for

it was replaced by a dull thud upon my abode,

like an iron knocker crashing into the

thick wooden doors of a voluminous stone castle.

The thuds were steady and seemed a waltz,

had I space and partner I may have been inclined

to dance.

From waltz my mind transformed it to time,

specifically the ticking of an ancient clock, its

pendulum swinging back and forth,

beheading the air with each pass –

moonlight cascaded into my home, outlining a

figure

pitch against a sweltering sky.

There were others behind him,

for I could distinctly hear them speak,

though the hushed tones and accents made it

impossible for me to understand.

A rope was passed amongst them,

one end fashioned like a noose,

which that looming figure before me

dropped

down

upon my

throat.


Once placed, he secured the noose with one quick tug,

nearly crushing my windpipe,

then with his compatriots,

slowly

drug me out

through the hole they had made

in my coffin, my home, and drew me

up through the hole they had dug.


I could not help but wonder how many

of those listed upon the stones were still

here, interred, not yet a gleaming coin

in the Ressurectionists’ eyes.


Corpses beware! lest you resurrect before

the Judgment.  Stuffed into crates and barrels,

shipped in shadow to the backdoor

of some surgical theatre, so that some youth

might know you as intimately as your Creator,

then discard you into the clay you once were.

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