Relentless

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Relentless

Onward they shamble,
grim, dark shapes of doom,
red eyes staring
in shadowed faces.

Silent with ominous purpose,
these shrouded, night-cloaked shapes
move, unseeing in the cursed morn,
forth from the clouded skies,
the mists of the buried past.

Ever their fate before them,
they leave their sleepless beds
to join the march of ghouls,
the horde of undead
but lifeless too,
drawn on by veiled imperative,
the call of forsaken lives.

What vile compulsion
informs these stiff, reluctant bones
with need to struggle on
towards apotheosis,
tortured destination?

This tide of loathing infernal
finds its reason in words unholy,
the mindless intent of the demon march
the daily morning commute.

Line Count: 25
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