March of the Damned

Dark and sinister, they display their rotting, decomposing faces,
As maggots nibble gently on their moldy crumbling torsos.
"Hey," says one. "Let's go for a walk through the park."
"Sure," groans another as his eyes drop out onto the cold, dusty floor.

And so, the five rear up onto their decaying legs and shamble down the hall.
Pale eyes, pale flesh, grim faces, noxious breaths.
Life after death, living Hell. Their dark purgatory.
They walk the walk of the damned,
Fleeing to the light they can never reach.

One falls, a pile of bones, onto the cold obsidian
To enjoy the final sleep.
The other four march on,
Envious of their brother.

George Chadderdon c. 1987-1989