by Mike Berger
On scene specters sings solemn laments
to a blackened sky.
Rumblings of voodoo drums echo through
the black night.
Eerie mist hangs in the air blanketing the
A blood Lotus turns its comely face to the
Jungle beasts creep away fleeing the
At midnight, the living dead rise from their
Hideous, necrotic things; stinking of rotting
Sitting around the flickering flames of a
campfire, they languish.
They swamp ghost stories while smoking
cigars and drinking a Bud.
© 2011 Mike Berger
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