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A tavern just outside Jerusalem:

four men are killing time; three tossing dice;

the fourth cannot control his darting eyes

that stare outside upon a scene of dread---

a long procession of the walking dead.

The fourth man cannot help staring at them.

They shuffle, stumble, shamble---as expected

from those of long decease, now resurrected.

This fourth man's mind, once, long ago, rejected

any statement of supernatural's

causes:  no gods, nor endliess lives, nor souls.

Of these things, he is no man's explicator.

He puts men into agony, of course;

but toward his victims he feels no remorse;

nor holds himself the least responsible

for ordered actions not in his control.

That makes of him a better flagellator.

Then something strikes in him a sudden chill

on his flesh, then descending to his core

(enough to know he does not want his fill

of this that makes both mind and body sore).

He feels quite certain . . . that, what is in store,

for him, this night, he has suffered before.

A searing, screaming, and incessant pain

(in foretaste now) that will burn out the brain.

The other three men, at their table near

the wall that is the farthest from the door

do not seem to notice his rising fear,

nor make to him even the least expression

about these deadfolks ambling in procession.

Starward