The dead, their wearied forms and twisted backs,
their jerking steps, and shambling hoards and packs,
pursue in mindless mass the living souls
left on this earth who’ve yet escaped sheol’s
dark sleep and reaper’s sharpened scythe, who’ve yet
through shadows dark and through this bitter threat
their lives preserved from death. I saw their rise;
I saw our fall. For us there is no prize.
It is their game, and we’ve no hope to win.
We’re all that’s left of what mankind had been.
Short Poem: Bedlam
Tale Told 