The last of the horsemen,
never left — pestilence,
the air, hung heavy,
with disease,
cancerous, cantankerous,
living breathing,
carcasses.
Something wrong,
with every one,
of them.
The vermin,
well at home,
in the thick, dank, damp,
carbon dioxide,
bordering on, monoxide.
The dead puppets,
moving on wires,
brown flesh, porous,
breathing, rancid negativity,
death,
they walked around,
with guns,
in their mouths
and stank,
of dead
frogspawn.
