Blissful Wrath
All it takes is one.
It moves.
It breeds.
It grows.
Before it was small.
The numbers few.
Then more came,
Far from the East.
The gray, the white, the black vermins
Infiltrated our trade systems and tainted them with their filth.
Smaller than a hair, four-legged, disgraceful demons,
Mimicking death with their coats of thin hair.
They almost destroyed us.
One by one they along the pestilence as their numbers multiplied.
Two by two they scattered among the outlyers.
Four by four as they grew and infected.
Eight by eight they took their first victim.
The lucky one.
The one who would never see the horrors to come.
Emerging from every corner, they came out at an unstoppable rate.
No one was safe.
Not a month had passed,
Stepping outside,
Seeing the sun shimmering on the villages.
Today, darkness.
Not a living soul to be found.
The old, the young, the men, the woman, all fell in the streets.
Fresh corpuses.
The skin melting, dripping from every poar.
Death filled the air.
Rotten flesh made one want to kill himself.
The stench drove the living mad.
So many bodies,
So few graves.
They dug the holes,
Those so unfortunate to live,
Spending the rest of their living life digging,
And digging.
Deep and wide, the dead were tossed in,
Worthless piles of meat.
Names were of no consequence.
Rich, poor, all buried together.
The ground purged with the dead,
So full and packed,
They would rise again.
Running away,
To the last green spot not corrupted by the anger of god,
I fell to my knees.
I prayed.
I begged for my life to be taken from me.
No more of this death.
No more of this life.
No more of this agony.
If this is the end of the world,
That, something I wish not to see,
Should not be seen by any man.
Let me give up my soul to the devil himself if it would bring me peace from this world.
Let me die knowing that no more raven images be forced into my heart.
I have seen this world, and hell is paradise.