The dead lie still as the mist creeps about;
Midnight falls, turning dead into undead;
They rise, they walk, they spread terror throughout;
Turning friend into foe, blood shining red.
She wakes, startled and shaken by the dream;
He shoves the knife through her heart with a grin;
Her lungs then collapse, drowning out her scream;
He walks calmly away, just one more sin.
The sun rises, forcing shadows to shrink;
She sleeps now, serene, deep down in her grave;
He stands, smiling, on Insanity's brink,
His love for her twisted in his mind's cave.
If he killed her, she could love no other;
Kill her he did, thinking of another.
This is the first sonnet I've ever written...it's in iambic pentameter.
Any comments, positive or otherwise would be helpful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.