Cursed Soil

Miners in a small Southwestern town encounter animated corpses.

This tale of old may sound alchemic, there was a most disturbed pandemic

That crept through the hills and washes of an unnamed Southwestern town.

The virus to each receiver brought a painful, nasty fever

That would surely cause the strongest man to tearfully break down.

 

Chilling body aches and pains, maddening splinters in their brains,

Binding souls in ghostly chains, for the living, on the floor.

As the Reaper came a-gloating, rancid pus and bleeding, bloating,

There were miners there worth quoting what they’d glimpsed from their backdoor.

 

Gases swirled in swelling, bellies bulged, yet were expelling,

The foulest stench of death, Hell-smelling, as their lanterns lit the dark.

There was a corpse out there, still standing, palms held up as if demanding,

The miners were not understanding, mumbled question or remark.

 

It shambled, stiffly moving, surely God was disapproving,

Were corpses then removing themselves from each earthen-covered grave?

Then behind it was another, came the white-eyed miner’s mother,

Decomposing, like his brother, raised their hands as if to wave.

 

Desperations growing dire gave the fearful men desire,

They should round them up with fire, that the dead stay dead and die.

The miners started trenching, gasoline on corpses, drenching

Cursed soil needed quenching, as the blazes reached the sky.