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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
The dead take revenge against their killer, or the journey of guilt and delusion in a serial killer's descent to madness.

Submitted: May 06, 2017

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Submitted: May 06, 2017



I miss the times when I couldn’t feel

My former years, when I was numb

And had my life in coloured in teal

Or greyish black, now it’s become


so terrifying to see my face

In glass reflecting back my eyes

My eyes showing not but a trace

Of emotion or surprise.


The dead began to walk and started

Ripping, tearing at my clothes –

They began to rise, cold-hearted,

From their concrete catacombs.


Feeling at me with their cold dead hands

I look toward their faces

And there’s recognition – I ran;

Tripped up on my shoelaces


And fell into a camouflaged pit

The undead loomed above me

The men and women that I’d slit

The throats of by the hanging tree.

© Copyright 2018 Joshua Foakes. All rights reserved.

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