The Dead Do Not Salute Flags
An undead hand breaks through the earth, Its flesh torn by the stones of the grave. Fingers claw at the cold, blood-soaked soil, Scraping, ripping, dragging The remnants of a man From the darkness that had claimed him. The corpse rises. Or tries to. For gravity itself seems burdened With the weight of the world, And the earth, which once received him, Now refuses to release its dead. Bone grinds against bone. A shattered spine begins to straighten. Limbs long surrendered to the silence Struggle against the tyranny of death. He rises. Slowly. Agonisingly. ...
