Wandering War

War in time gone past, has done many things to men who were willing - or even unwilling - to fight it.

A river frozen across the steep land, impedes the journey of a thousand men as they set their sights on war. They march on toward, ready to built a bridge, with a fire in their eyes, equal to that of hell's pits. They were once living, breathing, chests rising and lowering with each breath. Women called them home, children called them fathers, society called them warriors. Now they are the terror that stalks the night, a cursed reminder that the world is impure in all its ways. 

Screams ignite the fire within their eyes, as they pass through towns, devouring helpless souls locked out from the sights of society. The world is their oyster, but they do not search for the pearl inside, only the meat that will sustain them until their next feast. It is all not of jest, only instinct guides their will to live. A simple life of wandering through barren hills, tumbleweed stricken villages, and bodies turned to dust, blown away by howling winds. 

The world is quiet, some days it becomes too quite. They find no more sustenance in villagers who cry their way to freedom, unable to attain it by only a few meters. They must feast at a moment, so there may be gratification for their empty guts. Brothers, Fathers, Grandfathers, all pillage among each other, tearing all they know from limb to limb until their bodies are filled. They wander on further, only a select. strong few are left, fathers and brothers. 

Blood pastes their skin, death having marked them from their end. Their ruler is no one, they follow the laws of obedience that they themselves had created upon waking from the ashes of a blood soaked land. Survivors were their first victims, and those dead, were their last that night. Greed sees them along their journey, guiding their course through rivers and valleys unseen to their blood-lusting eyes. They speak, on simple words, illiterate to a man of breath, but to them, crystal bells ring through their tone deaf ears. 

More villages come into sight, more people grow the fire within them. Life is humble as they venture through the streets. No one fights them, for they cannot die by a mere mortals hands. Fear stenches the world, leading them from oyster to oyster. They feed. . . Their chests keep still. . . And they wander through the night, the torches within their eyes, their only guide to the darkness within their mind.

Author's Note

A little Macabre writing of Zombies from past centuries.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A powerful poem. Feel of realistic view on world today and yesterday.
"Greed sees them along their journey, guiding their course through rivers and valleys unseen to their blood-lusting eyes. They speak, on simple words, illiterate to a man of breath, but to them, crystal bells ring through their tone deaf ears. "
Using the Zombies made this story come alive and feel real. Thank you for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote

[Lorry]

You capture wonderfully, in the first verse, the basic reality of what is hidden behind the word war, real life people with real life families, hoping and praying they can just make it through one more day, leaving the future for a time when they can think that far ahead and just get by the next part of life as it comes.
But never forgetting the true barbarity of war in your words, you show it from many sides and capture the true barbarity of it, which is that it is always caused by one wanting and by the victims they leave behind. The undead speak to me of mercenaries, living within the war and feeding from others pain and suffering. One thing all wars have in common, humans always start them, humans always suffer, yet we never learn from our mistakes. I suppose anyone unfortunate enough to be within that position must become a zombie to get through it, figuratively and literally.
Really enjoyable read.

[Lauren]

Thank you so much! I love the depth you grabbed from this, it's so true that war is a destroyer and always leaves something dead in its wake.

[Lorry]

Real lives is the thing we must remember....Every one was real.

[Robert Parlange]

An army of marching zombies moving from town to town like an undead tide. You should expand on this. Would make a good short story.

[Lauren]

Thank you, I'm glad you liked it, and your thoughts on expanding. I might do it one day, when I find the right time :)