And from a sea of graves and cobblestone,
The dead ones stir, their chilling presence sends an echo in a world with no walls.
A murmur is heard,
It sounds of disdain, of a seething disgust.
Although I don't mind all too much.
Had they not been confined so loyally to their coffin,
Had they not grown so accustomed to the rotting carcass they live in,
Had they known a world six feet above, one with sunlight and life,
I suppose the disdain would turn envious.

I would rather be a victim of their torment than be a product of their contempt.