The Necromancer’s Army

The haunting silver moon showered her pale, ghostly light
upon the stretching barren fields, her presence
the clarion call that echoed ‘neath the dry, hard grounds.
It engulfed our bones, our still hearts, our wasted minds,
racking our brittle chests; seizure was imminent
and disturbance wrenched open our bulging, swollen eyes.

And somewhere, slippery words whispered,
soft and cold and venomous,
quiet and chilling and poisonous,
reminiscent of the great and terrible serpent
that rampaged olde magic in the Founders’ day
and seized upon the waning souls of wizardry.

The incantations grasped our festering bodies,
enticing what little life still etched itself within our languid frames,
and the soil cascaded down upon us--choking out the stale air,
surging into our unhinged jaws--
and in meek desperation, we clawed our way out,
dirt and grime and rotting decay lacquered to our bones.

By the light of the werewolf’s bane, we rose up from our forgotten graves.
An oppressive shadow misted before us--
burgeoning evil blazing within those fiery, slitted eyes--
and tendrils of ghosted fears seeped into our withered souls.
Yet mindlessly we followed--mindlessly we listened with our tattered ears--
And mindlessly we worshiped at Death’s own twisted games.