Undead

The undead wail at night,
In the defiled ruins of the dead.
As pale as shreds of cloud,
Their voices as deep as gorges,
Putrid now, like decaying wine, once good.
The mist falls from the blackened skies,
It's weight no longer supported,
Like the bones of the undead,
No one to do their bidding and lay them to rest.
They haunt the lonely wanderers,
Who come stumbling by their graves.
And then till madness steals them from themselves,
The undead torment their heavy minds and hearts.