The End
One by one they walk toward the sun none blinking a closed third eye
a gust of wind whispers a quiet sin but no inner voice replies
the feet march on till morning dies and fall comes to an end
the season changes not a one recoils, taking no measure to toughen the skin
the rivers turn red as the murdered they've bled, but those accustomed still deign to drink
and among the flowers that grow near their towers up rises a foul stink
Comes ye those contrary to warn in mad furry those who live by folly and lie
but no living dead so much as hangs their head for they have willingly chosen to die.