Monsters

They claw,

And the hands they scrape,

Push the dirt and sod up under the nails,

Blackening as they come up from under the earth,

Before they reach the pasture animals,

The farmhands,

The cities,

Cold Night slips a cool finger under their chins,

Bids them come and do her bidding,

And she promises them not the rest they have left,

Though they still seek it,

Not the satisfaction of the life the living hoard,

Though it runs down their lips and neck,

No she--cruel and seductive--yields up only one,

Dark gift they find no pleasure in receiving,

Namely more company to their ranks,

As they amass under her watch and instruction,

And dead eyes look to the sky-if they are really looking,

And the thoughts of the dead are few and simple.