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There is not much time.

The dark tide is coming,


like a wall,

full of souls

and smelling of death.

Sticking to us;

back tar

stains our finger tips,

our lips,

our genitals;

wherever we have touched death.

In some of us it spreads

from within.

Tendrils of rancid ocher,

reaching from the heart,

creeping like long-fingered

spider veins,

through and up the spinal column

to take the brain.

The real ones

look perfect on the outside,

but you can see corruption

in their eyes

and smell it in their hair,

their breath,

their skin.


it's coming.

That's a sure thing.

Dark days.

Hard days;

and I don' think

enough of us are still around

to stop it.

Funny thing is,

that doesn't change anything.

We will still stand.

We won't run.

When the sky goes black

and the lights go out

and there is nothing to lean on

that doesn't bear the black mark

of the enemy,

when we are alone

surrounded by darkness;

then we will burn.

Hotter that the Sun

and brighter than the stars.

We do not become

dim shadows in the darkness.

We do not fade

under the great tide.

We immolate.


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