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…….
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