…they come us, restless dead,Shrouds woven words men,With trumpets s — Mira Grant, Feed

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…they come to us, these restless dead,Shrouds woven from the words of men,With trumpets sounding overhead(The walls of hope have grown so thinAnd all our vaunted innocenceHas withered in this endless frost)That promise little recompenseFor all we risk, for all we've lost…

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Related Topics: dystopia, poetry, zombies

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