A city of tents, on the shore of a sea of sand.
Night has fallen across the land.
The doors are locked and the windows barred,
The streets are devoid of life and love.

And in these silent city streets, she wanders;
Circling in a deadly spiral.
Doomed to end as last night's did:
At her husband's lonely grave.

When he died, he took her soul
And brought her voice along with it.
She cannot live, and she will not die:
She's stuck between, she's Walking Dead.

They say her soul is in his tomb
And he calls her back to him at sundown.
His grave's her only resting place:
His tombstone is her pillow.

A band of raiders leaves her be,
As they sneak up on her sleeping city.
They see her lifeless slumber, and they know:
It's bad luck to kill the Walking Dead.

She does not hear the steel-on-steel;
She does not wake to the children's screams.
The women fleeing do not stir her;
In sleep, her body's a long-dead corpse.

Then the soldiers torch the city of canvas
And she wakes screaming without sound.
Tethered by death and driven by fire:
She's torn between her husband and her life.

She rises; she paces and circles.
Her soulless eyes show her deathly fear of dying;
And her husband's ghostly command:
"Loose your grip on life.

"You swore you'd always love me
That you would never leave.
You pledged your soul, to beyond the grave:
You swore you'd never leave."

The sand heaves up and buckles,
A skeletal claw reaches out.
She tries to scream, but her soul is her voice,
And her husband is holding her down.

And the flames leap merrily higher
Mocking her silent struggle.
"It's ok, my love, we're together."
Comes the whisper through her funeral pyre.

Somewhere in the ruins,
Two blackened skulls lie together.
Two fleshless hands hold two more tight:
A mockery of love.

But Death has loosened her soul-bound tongue
And her screams deafen all who hear them.
The living avoid the City of Death:
It's bad luck to kill the Walking Dead.