By Hokus Grey
There is not much time.
The dark tide is coming,
rising,
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.
Yeah,
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.