Wednesday Morning in the
Village of the Damned
By: Michael Foster

Gentle snow greeted the rising light,
falling quietly from a heaven beyond,
and rested upon iron-framed epitaphs.
      A four-legged sentry barked the danger,
      from the extent of his linked tether.
Echoed warnings persisted,
but could not raise the dead,
nor rally a defense.
      Rolling rumbles approached the bone yard,
      desecrating life's sacred slumber.
The clamoring invader approached the tombs,
yet the silent corpses refused to rise,
content with their lifeless pursuits.
      Lacking composure, they would not stand,
      cowards of the occasion, they slept.
The diesel beast plundered,
devouring with a hydraulic fury,
littering debris in it's unholy exodus.
      The urban monster would return again,
      and feed on their remains.