Undeath
is violent,
or so they say.
A slight turn,
rising from your earthen bed
as the drained sun finally sets
it’s daily toil complete.
A measured gait, slow and dawdling,
nowhere specific to be.
The memories fading,
leave you gasping
but not quite for breath.
You return home- to find it replaced.
The living earth having made its claim
So you settle here,
in this fungal grove,
extant unlife, yet
growing from death.
sleep again here, as you forget,
all the odes you once sang of life,
as you slip into something
resembling the long sleep.
Thudding as it makes contact with your side,
you open your eyes to blazing sunlight
and panicked screams.
Their face wide, pleading as you rise
again, unsettled thoughts twist your hands, as
you grasp for them.
This sleep was yours, why would they take it?
Your peace to have; they should have known:
A corpse should be left well enough alone.
So you settle again,
The fungus taking its place.
Bloodied yet pure,
another cycle complete.
Death is violent,
as they say.