Death's Army

 

In rhythm they march.

In perfect tune with the beat of the drums.

They put a foot forward,

then another.

On they embark,

this band of gruesome brothers.

 

Led by the skeletal figure,

scythe in hand.

barking orders,

he points them on.

Across no man's land,

to the place beyond.

To wage war, fought over aeons,

overwrought with emotion,

anyone that witnesses,

the onslaught will be.

 

With pounding feet

parading to meet,

the millions of lost

soldiers and civilians,

the uncounted cost,

of wars unearthly call.

They fall in line,

one and all.

They fall.

 

Death's army groans with every step.

Moans through each forced breath.

Faces etched in eternal agony,

sagging skin falling

from skulls; broken and bony.

Blood curdling screams

erupt from maggot infested lungs.

Songs of hurt are sung.

Bullet hole pierced skin

infected with hate and slowly wasting

until they look just like their leader,

the skeletal grim reaper.

 

Thanks for reading

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle