‘Under a funeral moon’

Under a funeral moon we march.
Two leagues to the earthen grave.
Polished oak burden on our backs;
the soul contained can’t be saved.

In unison our procession steps,
slowly walking the ancient road. 
Soon past the cemetery gates;
to the mortal journey abode.

The priest reads his scripture. 
By torchlight we bury the dead.
The body is weighted by rocks;
a stake driven through the head.

Corpse musicians play the tune,
as the deceased’s family mourns. 
May our village be free of curses.
Rituals insure no vampire is born. 


About Bo Bandy

Just a creative soul trapped in a world of cookie-cutter pragmatism...
This entry was posted in Controversial topics, Different Perspectives, Fiction Stories, Ghost stories, Gothic horror, Horror, Macabre, Poetry, Supernatural, Uncategorized, Whimsical. Bookmark the permalink.

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