Parade

In a quiet landscape of concrete,

       Of chainlink, asphalt, empty metal

       Shells of diesel-powered vehicles,

Erratic twilight falls.

Sheets of whispering flames

       Rise up, and these echo flickering in the

       Pooling oil in the deep shadows

       Of the returning night. And all

Blue skies are hidden behind the

Curvature of the earth; the amber of the

       Horizon glows sickly under the

       Cloudcover, and from

              Beneath the rubble rise the

              Survivors who did not survive.

       There is nowhere to go and

       They begin to walk away

 

Through a civilization in deconstruction. They hear

       The sounds of failing industry and they

       Feel the loneliness of finality

While their decaying faces shimmer past

One by one

In the puddles of spilled oil.

Down the filthy streets of a dying world,

The parade of the undead marches on.