The Beast

Alas, the dead amount;
Accumulate in retched mounds.
They gather on the corner,
And squeeze through the gates of the silent
Graveyard that is there: filled,
Every inch, with the poor victims
Of this retched fate.
The mournful cries that are not heard
Rising in silence as time utters.
Though no one hears a word,
They watch, and wait;
Holding their breath before
The beast, unleashed before them, has heard





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