the undead past laura fox poemAll Poetry

The Undead Past [a poem]

By Laura Fox | Featured Contributor

She sleeps 
Beneath a stone 
With pallid lips sealed tight. 
But when come shades of night 
Then forth, alone, 
She creeps. 

Her wan 
And ghastly frame 
Should, ages since, be dust – 
Yet, after death, she must, 
Despite the same, 
Live on. 

She bleeds 
My throbbing veins, 
Imbibing greedily 
Their red vitality. 
As my strength wanes, 
She feeds. 

I can’t resist 
This blight consuming me: 
Each sleepless night, to be 
Fervidly kissed 
By death. 

Raw grief – 
Tormenting pain – 
Soulless automaton – 
Oh, must she wander on 
And never gain 

What stake, 
What herb, what knife, 
Can rive the binding spell, 
Can damn Un-Death to hell, 
That, from it, Life 
May wake? 

Haunt me no more. 
Cast off thy dread disease
Keep but sweet memories – 
My one, my sure 

My arm 
Will make thee free: 
My hand, my act, my choice, 
E’en while my loving voice 
Breathes over thee 
A charm. 

Thou unstill breast, 
The spirit of my love
Unchain the captive dove 
That she may rest 
In peace.” 

About the Poet - Laura Fox
About the Poet – Laura Fox

Hello, I’m Laura Fox! My husband and I live with our three children on an organic farm on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. On our blog, Fox’s Eden, we share words of humor, hope, and healing. I have published a poetry book titled The Rose and the Thorn and am starting up a group on Zoom where we discuss such topics as sustainable farming, holistic health, and green living.

If you would like your writing to be considered for publication on, visit here for information regarding submissions.

9 replies »

  1. As Faulkner said “The past is never dead. It it’s not even past.” Which is a sort of vampiric take in itself.

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