PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Over the remains of the dead, he found himself standing, still gripping the pistol in his sweaty, clammy hand. Down his forehead, the summer's dew ran; falling fast from his face, as though to rest with the nameless that lie at his feet. what remained of his friends, stood, gazing on in confusion, as they fought within, to gain their senses and purge themselves of the shock. Around them, the stench of the rotting began to grow. In the garden of the maggot flower, the living flesh became the seed from which the walking death would bloom.