Prompt: it's the end of the world
Under the bitter gray sky
The dead marched forward,
Twinkling eyes seeping blood,
And false grins through fetid facial transplants.
The hordes marched,
Painting crimson footsteps on the landscape
In a shambling, forward dance:
Hold hands with your partner,
Standing in a line.
Let go and pull apart.
Never see each other again.
Hungry bellies hung from exposed ribs.
The clouds and the crowd would tremble in unison.
As they stepped over the corpses of those who had fallen,
Whose stapled-together joints had given out,
They feared only hunger and storm
Until they too would fall,
And be trampled by the crowd.
Only as rotting feet cracked their brittle bones
And greedy hands harvested their living organs
Would they learn the truth:
The world does not end with the crack of lightning.
The world does not end with the decay of hunger.
Your world ends with your replacement,
And the current world ends when all have been replaced.
Who will notice and cry?
Who will rage if the light is carried forward?