And some are children. Thin, and fierce, and fast.
It takes them quickly, and it dries them out..
The old ones moan; the small dead children shout
and yell as if in playgrounds. They'll run past
you, double back. You see their teeth
and their dead eyes, and open bloodless wounds.
Their shrieks are wordless, just unthinking sounds.
And through their wounds you see dried bone beneath.
They're many. You can fight them off. You cut
them down, and trample them. Something will break
inside you. Once you thought it for hope's sake
you went on fighting. Bitter in your gut
an acid sense, that hope has told you lies.
The future's vicious jaws and mad dead eyes