The streets of home bustle no more.
Cadaver riddled. Awash with red.
Like the last blossoms of spring,
oh, how many did fall?
How many more will?
Here in are the whispers of necromancy,
and each man drinks his brother’s blood.
Lord, when did we become eaters of flesh?
When did I, with pen as scalpel;
with parchment, with diffidence, viscerally incise,
to seek and find the things that made us so?
I know not why.
Hearken I to when fear was brought through stories of devils.
And the narrations of ghosts were in days long gone.
Of rattles… of painted masks.
Legends around the campfire told.
Before we were prisoners to guns.
Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of the images in this post.
