The Apocalypse

They came and conquered us all,
Without rhyme or reason,
They crushed us, bleak, barren, rendered small.
Onward, forward, this the killing season.

Lives crushed flat ,no sorrow not even malice,
grim death on a sled.
Misery and woe erupt from the grisly chalice.
Faceless, nameless, no joy in the reaping
death consumes all, casualties heaping.

Murderous purposes, all achieved,
What devastation, unbelieved.

Yet we fought as we must to survive,
Total chaos, extinction, our apparent end,
when one at least remains alive.
Then the reaper has not completed
all he set to do,
I am here, still standing, barren waste all around,
The reaper, he has left, and I have made not a sound.