IMG_4842 // By Robert Guimont
The swamp holds mysteries,
Silence within its barren domain.
Eyes peek through the sheer surface,
Hinting at the dangers lurking below.
Lacking is the bird’s song of twilight.
Missing is the rustle through the brush.
Silence holds us in its thrall,
Cold fingers clasping around my neck.
Humid air coats my mottled body,
Mutilated by blood-thirsty mosquitoes.
The path teases my mind’s eye,
Offering a way out of this hellhole.
I hack at the dried branches,
Threatening to leave me with one eye.
I’ve reached the end of my journey
As my feet sink in the quicksand of despair.
THE DEAD ARE HERE TO STAY
Look at the pretty sky.
Such beauty way up high.
Clouds drifting by so slowly
Like a shrine to what’s holy.
All of this will soon come to an end.
Don’t bother to search for a friend.
The moon will rise up in the night sky
Into the danger from what lurks high.
Dark shadows will descend onto the sand.
Shrieking louder than a marching band.
What do they want from our peaceful town?
Death and mayhem–all served with a frown.
Run for you life if you still can.
Danger for each and every man.
The Dead are here to stay.
They didn’t come to play.
THE DEAD GAME
Life has no beginning
And no end.
Only a state of flux.
Step onto the ride
And hold on tight.