“Shadows”
The shadows writhe, a hungry shroud,
From coffins old, they stir and crawl,
And thirst for blood, beyond the crowd.
Their eyes like coals in sunken face,
A pale, unblinking, dreadful stare,
They move with silent, chilling grace.
The fangs descend on tender throat,
A crimson drip, a whispered plea,
The final, fatal, single note.