The Reality Rules

They are hordes

They are lost
They are paced
And they last

Do not break down
Do not be still
Do not fight wreckless
And do not fall

We are the remaining
We are the hope
We are distopian
But we grow

They are not fear
They are not the end
They are not stopping
But they can't defend

The Breathing Boys

The breathing boys battle those death lost.

Their minds and mettle calm tremored hands,
Making guns to greatness in bleak lands.
It's cold and chaos that keeps their breath,
Purging the sickness, scorching those left.

But the world gets lost in entropy.
Recovering the rubble does naught,
The aftermath leaves us wrecked, distraught.
Then rises the tribes and savage wars.
Kill the Walking, it's us we abhor.