Shrouded
They’re shrouded in mist almost
as dark as the shrouds
they wear to cover themselves,
to cloak themselves
for their journey.
Shrouds like dusty abayas
uniformly grey,
shapeless,
bloodless,
formless,
lifeless
grey.
Only their mouths still red,
stained by their final feast.
The feast of what was left.
And now there’s nothing,
nothing any more.
No more.
Nothing.




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