Vultures

 

The road to hell is lined with good intentions,

but it should be mentioned

that it's also lined with skulls,

too many to count.

They are piled as high as skyscrapers,

by the roadside they mount

 

They watch on

through dead eyes

as you slowly drive by.

Each torturous mile,

more harrowing than the last.

Beyond the skulls just a dead wasteland,

desolate and vast.

 

Above the skulls,

the vultures circle.

Swooping in now and then.

Waiting for that last exhale,

to observe in closer detail

the look of fear that contorts every face,

the scared eyes that they love to taste.

 

They have gorged themselves,

this feathery band,

along this stretch of land,

for centuries.

Guiding the way to the wrought iron gates

of hell's eternal penitentiaries.

Readying themselves for a feast.

Before they take what remains of you

to finally meet the beast.

 

 

Thanks for reading

Check out my latest book 

https://tinyurl.com/KCHFITS

 

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle 

Kyle Coare - The Hum video

Zombie

 

Hunger is all I feel,

Just longing for a hearty meal.

I'd not had one of those in quite some time,

on some brains I'd like to dine.

Not steak and chips, nor a succulent pie.

I don't quite remember why,

but now grey matter is all that I crave

ever since the moment I rose from my grave.

 

My vocabulary has become a little strained,

every time I try to speak, the words are coming out strange.

Earlier I just tried to say hi,

was waving frantically at this passer by,

but to my surprise the sound that came

was a guttural moan,

sounded like I was saying 'brains'

 

I've gotten a little green around the gills.

If I could speak, I'd visit a doctor for my ills.

My legs are not quite what they were,

I stumble and lurch, shuffling everywhere.

Bits keep falling off,

earlier I had to cough,

A little skull bone caught in my throat

as I expelled the chunks of gristle,

something inside me broke.

 

The best part of life

is the company you keep.

I've met a few people for a bite to eat

and now they stumble along with me, 

though the conversation is quite clumsy.

We do see sights

though it's mostly brains,

but they do take away those hunger pains.

 

 

Thanks for reading

Peace, Love and Poetry.

Kyle.

In the trenches

 

In the trenches

Dead hands sit in the mud beside

scar tissue across dead countryside.

Mudslide from all the rain cried

floods the blood-soaked ground.

Death paces, scythe tapping to the beat

as all around the mortars pound

 

In the trenches

Mirror image over dead man's land,

two sides of the same hand

fighting for a tiny piece of green.

Through clouds of phosgene,

choking and loosening trench coats

the unmasked clasping at their throats.

 

In the trenches

Wounded lay in the dead lands just feet away

screams in the night keep us awake,

no hope of parlay, no respite in these fields of decay.

Just the sound of machine gun symphony,

missile crash cacophony.

Ghostly echoes of the undead,

never to dream of peaceful meadows again,

not here, in this dugout trench bed.

 

In the trenches

Skeletal remains, nowhere for the hurt to drain,

no escape from the constant missile rain.

Rats entrenched,

disease and stench.

Waiting for the time

when the whistles blow

and we go over the top

into the killing fields below.

 

 

Thanks for reading,

Peace Love and Poetry.

Kyle