Tuesday, 24 November 2009


The melting mass of mutated man
Struggled forward spouting blood,
No bright coloured shirt he wore
Just a pattern etched into his chest.
A blue scar marred his orange neck,
Peeling flesh his deformed face,
As from the burning fields of ash
He crawled , blinded by the light.
But no-one came to his aid
To treat his toasted skin;
No-one, because there is no-one
No living thing is left !


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