Morbid Poetry Hour!

A poem by Wilton Ascumdum -

A Lamentation on the Times

Across the now unused roads

Walk monsters of a human-like

Fashion, but with no moral code;

Only a ghastly morbid nature:

Rotting, trotting, with their eyes

Pale and cold as their intent.

Moaning, groaning in hunger

Wandering for a fleshy scent.

Dry blood sticks to their skin,

Now gross with the smell of death.

Their clothes a ragged mess;

Their only piece of humanity left.

Chasing, hasting day and night,

Our situation is blight.

Gorging, forging through the streets;

Comrades becoming their feast.

Some limp while others crawl.

Some short while some are….. Wait…

Stop! What are you doing?! Stay away!!!

(Screaming)

Braaaaaiiiiiinnnnnnns…….