I speak of death,
of rotting still.
I speak of dying,
Before you're killed.

The walking dead,
they have no place.
They're filled with dread
they have your face!

The end begins,
it's scarcely started.
You one were here,
but now departed.

I speak of death,
but not of pain.
I speak of dying,
But not in vain....

(for more of my wonderful poetic masterpieces, try poetry 987, 988, and
989.)

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Mayan, in the year 308 AF.