Slow Death Sickness
And yet, few have paused to wonder
What could make a man such a lie,
This wanderer, this seeker of mystery
Turn his face back in to the wind
His long and lonely footsteps trace
In yearning for this familiar place
For these is a shadow behind his gaze
Darkness where there once was light
The scar of some grim and terrible sight
Homble and secret thoughts
That scarcely can he bare to remember
Hold within aching breast forever
For in the distant, darkened places
Rabid dogs and rodent swarms conquer
The city streets of mud and mire
And more are dead than living
Lost children scream in the cold night
The Winter snow falls without respite
And all who live are soon to die
The Doctors of black shroud and beaked face
Soldiers and servants, the sinners and chaste
The miasma lingers, the evil air
Permeates every alley, every house, every room
He fled, never knowing he could not escape his doom
