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Army of the living dead

Between the adored and the adorer falls the shadow,
Roar sometimes, the children of the gallows,
They smite and they cry, in tatters the spirit inside,
Watching silently as time flies by.

Memory fails in the wake of being alive,
Giddily they forget, tenderly try remember what’s benign.
Thor the brave hammers down at them,
Medusa the great walks to give them the eye.

In vantage of the dark, the vintage occupy,
What’s not theirs to own, as the gist defines.
The grit, ever present, stands inclined for malevolence,
Leave at their wake, gnats and flies to feast at the fallen.

The spittoon carries venom, debilitates the prey,
Wrought as they come, come what may.
The need for rectitude is long lost,
Dilapidated the skin lags, bones as their hangers.

Opposition is anything but a charade,
Beating them would take an altogether different masquerade.
Till then, they lay waiting in the dark,
To live, to pain, to die, long for a feel at last.