A Children’s Crusade

they sing a mournful song

in the hours before the dawn

and march in rank procession

 through the land of desolation

the lonely sons and daughters

of forgotten generations

the one lost tribe

scattered throughout the nations

The End

Finis

The Abattoir

The abattoir was secreted away amongst a warren of dereliction. It stood alone amidst the burned out buildings and piles of rubble. Its red brick walls were mostly covered by a coat of black soot, courtesy of many local warehouse fires. The soot thinned out at the base so it looked like a black occult temple which was dipped in blood, like the feet of Tezcatlipoca the terrible god of Aztec legend. The clock tower towered above the entrance like a great black phallus. Through the gates below countless thousands were once led to the slaughter. The entrance reeks with the fetid stench of rotting flesh. The holding pens, arcane iron contraptions stained red ochre by rust and congealed blood. Meat hooks hang silent witness to the butchery committed in this meat factory, this industrial necropolis. This temple of savagery is not deserted. There is a priesthood yet, practitioners of a dark and unholy art. There are others too, the innocent abandoned. Victims of a satanic press gang, penned like cattle awaiting slaughter. Herded into the bloody death traps where iron jaws are clamped around their necks. They await the skull cracking hammer blow. They wait to be made meat.

The End

Finis