‘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. 

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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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