The Marchers of Vindervuld

Upon the marshy hollows
Their feet make a sucking plop
As purest mud
Grabs at their boots
That are moldy to the laces

Beings of all sizes
March in a sturdy mob
Fat and thin with tall and short
All decrepit to our eyes
If we even wish to look

These beings of shadow
Cloaked in their mottled rags
Will march across the land
Until a dying breath
Escapes their cracking lips

Where do they march?
Nobody knows
We never think to ask
All we do is watch them march
Until they fade from life

About Charles Yallowitz

Charles E. Yallowitz was born, raised, and educated in New York. Then he spent a few years in Florida, realized his fear of alligators, and moved back to the Empire State. When he isn't working hard on his epic fantasy stories, Charles can be found cooking or going on whatever adventure his son has planned for the day. 'Legends of Windemere' is his first series, but it certainly won't be his last.
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2 Responses to The Marchers of Vindervuld

  1. Brilliant and eerie poem. Kind of reminds me of … what’s that poem called … The Highwayman? Okay, granted this poem is completely different, but it evokes the same aura when I read it 🙂

    Like

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