Slithering from the tunnels, red slime

bursts upwards out of a hundred holes.

The wash ejaculates in thousand feet high pillars,

appears to hover then plunges back to earth,

flooding the streets.

City dwellers stand transfixed in their shoes

or are washed away in the forceful deluge.

High rise folk watch in awe, wondering

if home was a place they would see again.

In the sky path of the purple rain,

the army of the dead arrive in numbers.

They come from the four corners of earth

forming a black saltire above the city.

From the east a craft carries their leader.

It hovers over the large cathedral.

A being descends, turns and speaks.

‘I, Wrath take the keys. The unclean are

swept away. All who shall live with me

shall prosper, the others shall perish.’

His eyes blaze round like a lighthouse beam

At that, the slime clears back to the holes

and the army takes to the streets of the city.

No one goes home or questions the order.

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