Reclamation
The corpses before us,
The blood on the floor.
The bodies of demons,
The broken down doors.
…
The logs of invasion,
The pentagrams red.
Phobos is ours,
Yet remains our dread.
…
The hallways are silent,
Status is green.
Slowly but surely,
We clear up the scene.
…
Yet our unease remains,
And close is our fear.
For all of us know,
That Hell passed through here.