Morax
I perched on the top rail of the control tower. This dead president boat once served a mighty nation that fell into our hands. The ship was ours now. Americans didn’t need what Americans couldn’t maintain.
Long way down was the ocean.
It was wide and rolling along as we sailed the path to the great city of man. I slid down the control tower to the deck below and slithered up behind two guards on duty, their pretty black guns shining in the moonlight. They were smoking, sharing a cigarette laced with a drug.
“What are our orders once we reach the city?” asked one of them, the smoke pouring out of his nostrils.
“We sort them,” said the older one. “We sort them out.”
They nodded to each other, the black oil of sin covering their hearts.
I will wait.
I will listen to the children of the one we betray.
I will relish in their deaths, bathe in their blood, feed on their suffering, and watch our enemy weep as all of them are thrown into the fire.
Man’s new god will eat them up, slurp them up like worms.
Writing Is Hard Work 