A line of people, stretching beyond the eye's limit.
On the shoreline, marching in place to the beat of a lonely drum.
Staring with glassy eyes, reaching for something that isn't there.
Heads up, poses defiant, but empty inside.
Guns to throats, knifes to wrists, nooses strung around necks.
Mass suicide.
Falling like dominoes, they blindly obey.
They walk among us, hollow and shattered.
Stalking us, like the un-dead of the night.
Shells, of what were, have now become containers, of what never should have been.
They're taking over, filling our minds.
A desolate wasteland, filled with popped balloons.
Outward appearances; never let them fool you.
For these creatures, these of the un-dead, these are not us.
These detestable things, that followed the cult, now pay the price.