Part I: Kurt
Kurt stands very still as the wind crackles low
Kurt stands very still as the wind crackles low
With the ash rising high in the city below
His eyes: frozen steel, now devoid of emotion
His shoulders: hunched forward, like waves in the ocean
His arms: long and sinewy, taut and yet slack
As the putrid breeze whistles and beats at his back
His legs remain braced; a slight bend to his knees
Not a trace of defeat, nor a trace of disease
His shirt: it is tattered, exposing one scar
And his teeth: they grind slowly; he knows they’re not far
His boots have been tightened, and thrice reinforced
The hair on his face isn’t long, but it’s coarse
Then it starts: as the cityscape’s dusk turns to dawn
Like a fresh, grisly canvas so recently drawn
This scene springs to life, or quite rather, to death
There’s a chill in the air, but Kurt can’t see his breath
A lone figure appears from the smoke and the pyres
A deformed silhouette from the heat of the fires
Its intentions are clear, they cannot be mistaken
Its purposeful pace, Kurt is sure, won’t be shaken
The figure is opposite Kurt; it advances
Its glaring eyes blind as pure hate or romance is
"Guys, I think I smell something delicious..."
But Kurt knows he can’t run, and he knows he won’t yell
Though he sees, here before him, the essence of Hell
Kurt stays on his perch, on the hood of this Ford
With a passive persona that almost looks bored
"All right, just blend in, Kurt. Blend in."
His grip slowly tightens on the hilts of his weapons
This street: the arena he’ll soon need to step in
He scratches a K in the roof of that Escort
And prays (to what God?) for some hint of support
It begins with one groan that evolves to six shrieks:
The same screech that has haunted his dreams these past weeks
There’s no longer one figure; there’s twelve, now there’s thirty
Kurt’s hands—hardly clean—are about to get dirty
With a squint and a grunt, Kurt begins his routine
First he pops a few pills that are made of caffeine
Then he takes from his sack (which was off to the side)
The same blouse that his wife wore the night that she died
And he fashions a headband of silk and of lace
To remind him of her (and keep hair off his face)
He then does twenty pushups, and stretches his quads
To a bystander, yes, this would likely look odd
Now he’s limber, he’s willing, he’s able and ready
His swords are both drawn, and his hands are both steady
Kurt turns to the hoard; they are thirty no more
Yes, for every square yard, he can count at least four
Here comes trouble!
He then turns on his iPod, his ‘enD of wrld’ playlist
As corpse after corpse does approach from the day mist
Iron Maiden—their melody rings a song true
It’s of beasts and of numbers; Kurt knows what to do
So with nerve endings twitching, and aching limbs throbbing
Kurt curses the Devil, for souls he is robbing
But takes a step forward, then three, and now five
Still incredulous that the once-dead are alive
But he levels his blades, and he hastens his pace
Quite resigned to survive, or to die in this place
Now he’s inches from battle, his arms are now swinging
And metals of death in his ears are now singing
Kind of like this, except Iron Maiden is playing. Also, swords.
Here we go, Kurt reflects, now amidst his first thrust
With a hint of delib’rate and haughty blood lust
I’ll never surrender, I’ll never retreat
And if death is your thing, then you’re in for a treat
‘Cause I’ve prayed for my wife, and the souls that are lost
Are you hungry, my friends? Well, I hope you’ve all flossed
His first swing is a miss, but the second connected
Bite this! bellows Kurt, to the dead resurrected
His eyes: frozen steel, now devoid of emotion
His shoulders: hunched forward, like waves in the ocean
His arms: long and sinewy, taut and yet slack
As the putrid breeze whistles and beats at his back
His legs remain braced; a slight bend to his knees
Not a trace of defeat, nor a trace of disease
His shirt: it is tattered, exposing one scar
And his teeth: they grind slowly; he knows they’re not far
His boots have been tightened, and thrice reinforced
The hair on his face isn’t long, but it’s coarse
Then it starts: as the cityscape’s dusk turns to dawn
Like a fresh, grisly canvas so recently drawn
This scene springs to life, or quite rather, to death
There’s a chill in the air, but Kurt can’t see his breath
A lone figure appears from the smoke and the pyres
A deformed silhouette from the heat of the fires
Its intentions are clear, they cannot be mistaken
Its purposeful pace, Kurt is sure, won’t be shaken
The figure is opposite Kurt; it advances
Its glaring eyes blind as pure hate or romance is
"Guys, I think I smell something delicious..."But Kurt knows he can’t run, and he knows he won’t yell
Though he sees, here before him, the essence of Hell
Kurt stays on his perch, on the hood of this Ford
With a passive persona that almost looks bored
"All right, just blend in, Kurt. Blend in."His grip slowly tightens on the hilts of his weapons
This street: the arena he’ll soon need to step in
He scratches a K in the roof of that Escort
And prays (to what God?) for some hint of support
It begins with one groan that evolves to six shrieks:
The same screech that has haunted his dreams these past weeks
There’s no longer one figure; there’s twelve, now there’s thirty
Kurt’s hands—hardly clean—are about to get dirty
With a squint and a grunt, Kurt begins his routine
First he pops a few pills that are made of caffeine
Then he takes from his sack (which was off to the side)
The same blouse that his wife wore the night that she died
And he fashions a headband of silk and of lace
To remind him of her (and keep hair off his face)
He then does twenty pushups, and stretches his quads
To a bystander, yes, this would likely look odd
Now he’s limber, he’s willing, he’s able and ready
His swords are both drawn, and his hands are both steady
Kurt turns to the hoard; they are thirty no more
Yes, for every square yard, he can count at least four
Here comes trouble!He then turns on his iPod, his ‘enD of wrld’ playlist
As corpse after corpse does approach from the day mist
Iron Maiden—their melody rings a song true
It’s of beasts and of numbers; Kurt knows what to do
So with nerve endings twitching, and aching limbs throbbing
Kurt curses the Devil, for souls he is robbing
But takes a step forward, then three, and now five
Still incredulous that the once-dead are alive
But he levels his blades, and he hastens his pace
Quite resigned to survive, or to die in this place
Now he’s inches from battle, his arms are now swinging
And metals of death in his ears are now singing
Kind of like this, except Iron Maiden is playing. Also, swords.Here we go, Kurt reflects, now amidst his first thrust
With a hint of delib’rate and haughty blood lust
I’ll never surrender, I’ll never retreat
And if death is your thing, then you’re in for a treat
‘Cause I’ve prayed for my wife, and the souls that are lost
Are you hungry, my friends? Well, I hope you’ve all flossed
His first swing is a miss, but the second connected
Bite this! bellows Kurt, to the dead resurrected
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