The Marching Dead

Through windswept streets,

In the callous embrace of winter

I stumble, hobble and creep

Through the long-abandoned streets.

 

I can feel only the hunger,

Insatiable, terrible

Driving my pale flesh forwards

Towards an unknown goal.

 

I am not the only,

We march in hordes

All with the same grotesque goal,

To eat, survive another day.

 

We are homeless,

Driven out by our

Once friends and family

Whom we tried to devour.

 

It’s been far too long

Since my last feast

My flesh is rotting, peeling

I can feel it slip from the bone.

 

In the beginning there was plenty

Of living flesh for us to eat,

Prey for us to hunt,

Now only skeletons remain.

 

My mouth pines for

The metallic taste of blood

The succulence of the body,

The wholeness of the soul.

 

Occasionally I remember those days

Long before our affliction claimed us,

Long before the Hunger set in,

When we were Human too.

 

I remember when I could speak

When I could sleep

When I could dream,

Before the Death March began.

 

Moaning in hunger,

Moaning in pain,

The dead march eternally

Until they rot away.

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