That squalid lad, hands worn and feet raw, good shoes left
atop the shelf, clothes ragged as hair, knees bruised and bent like spoons,
quick footed, short breathed; a boy who knew the value of footwear – his life
spent on the run – who knew not of friends nor family, only creatures from afar, Creed’s mind now set on what to eat; his final meal, that crucial choice, so
much at stake.
When butterflies should come to rest upon the path of
beasts, their boneless bodies shan’t withstand the gnashing of the teeth. The
snapping of those untamed jaws, their minds on naught but flesh.
Upon this path many have died, no turns have been presented.
They join the crowds; the dead now stand, humanity descended. These flies take
home on flesh and bone, and lay their wretched eggs, the dead now stand, no
hope at hand. Creed walks with living death.
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