THE ROOMMATE

Her corpse hath risen from the dead

The grave’s no place to lie her head

She came to live with me instead

 

She slumbers in her morning lace

Then through the night, the grounds she’ll pace

So I wear garlic just in case

 

Her skin is rotting off, I swear

Can see the flakes throughout her hair

I hope she keeps it in her lair

 

Her decomposing-carcass-scent

Comes wafting down the hallway vent

I guess, at least, she’s paying rent

 

© All Rights Reserved Caroline Adele O’Brien

 

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The Blood-Moon Rises

The blood-moon rises. Dogs howl.

Drown out the cry of the night owl.

Out from his coffin, creature crawls:

This beast obeys the nightly calls.

And through his fangs, bellows a growl.

 

His cloaking cape, his monk-like cowl,

Caked in plasma, from his last foul

Feast, slurped from veins in bathroom stalls.

The blood-moon rises…

 

Out from the tomb, he’s on the prowl.

His fangs protrude over his jowl.

He stalks his pray through winding halls

The doomed female cries, shrieks, and falls.

Teeth sink inside her flesh. Eyes scowl.

The blood-moon rises…

 

 

© All Rights Reserved Caroline Adele O’Brien