Breathe deep

They made the amorphous soldier a General and gave him an army.
I am in this parade and I watch him riding down the street.
He stares back at me with his decadent smile and his white viscous flesh and glazed eyes.

Do not come near me
Do not breathe on me
Your breath caries your rot and the smell make me vomit

The amorphous General led an army of corpses into the hearts of the living

I grow tired of hearing the same stories with different words and different characters, but the plot remains the same.
I grow tired.
I grow old and I lack the strength to fight.
I lack the strength to point the finger at those who feed the army of the amorphous General with the decadent smile and the viscous white flesh ridden with maggots.
He torments me when I sleep.
Every time I lie on my back I see his face approaching in the dark and I can smell his rot in his breath and I wake up screaming.
He led an army of pestilence into the souls of the living
On his skeleton horse
He waits for me to fall asleep, he waits in the dark, he waits for me.

I grow tired of the young and the old telling me the same story
the same plot remains.
I believe I do not grow tired of them but rather I grow tired with myself lacking the will,
lacking the strength to fight,
I feel ashamed that I cannot find the courage to point the finger at those who dip their bread into another’s salty sweat and clotted blood to feed the army of the amorphous soldier whom they made a General
and gave him a skeleton horse
and in the middle of the night he visits me,
positioning his viscous face millimeters away from mine,
tormenting me with his nauseating rotten breath waiting for me to scream
and then he steals the sound of my tearing voice and builds a whisper

“Welcome my blade coward, and die a million painful deaths
Welcome my blade, COWARD
and DIE
A MILLION PAINFUL DEATHS”