Buried Alive

The dead maybe gone, but not when they're buried alive

To escape from the grave they will desperately strive

For they're entombed in the dark, they're trapped in the soil

As they scream and they scrape with insanity's toil

There's a raven atop, upon a headstone of marble

Sensing what's 'neath, but its cawing is garble

It's dancing, it's prancing, it's fluffing up feathers

Anticipating the rising and the escaping from tethers

'Tis a 13th of winter on a night of the ides

And the full moon is pulling, as the dead rise in tides

There's a resonance, a presence, ascending through earth

As the sentinel cackles and caws for all it is worth

The restless in peace become crazed by their fate

When time is forgotten, but not so the hate

For insanity is sired in satin and wood

When the screams are all silent, there's no curdling of blood

In the eyes of the dead there's not a glimmer to seize

As they contemplate the rot of their flesh in minuscule degrees

To be ash cast from the inferno the departed will crave

But those buried alive will avenge from the grave

So they rise on a tide, like fetid murk from a mire

As moonlight etches a silhouette of a heavenly spire

And those tendrils of the dead escape under cover of night

To roam and to prey, to seek out and smite

There's a raven in flight beneath the orb of the moon

And above the swirling mists of a gathering gloom

It's looking, it's searching, for the fearful in hiding

Borne on an invisible tide it's flapping then gliding

3am, someone, somewhere, is sleeping like the dead

Until a tapping on a window, then into a nightmare they're led

Suffocating; trapped and alone, but they're shapes made of mist

And they're all gathering together in a smothering tryst

The haunted aren't dead, but they can be buried alive

When those from the grave, like a nightmare, arrive

For they'll be entombed in the dark, as if trapped in the soil

As they scream and they shake with insanity's toil