So they
marched,
dead-eyed in
a steady,
silent
parade.
Leaving
nothing behind,
looking
forward to nothing.
In step with
one another,
shoulder to
shoulder,
headed
toward the misty fog
thickening
on the horizon,
blocking out
the Sun.
Faces screwed
tight in
stoic
meaninglessness;
The Doom
Brigade,
in lock-step,
moving
unwavering
forward.
The crunch
of their boots,
echoing
through the quiet
streets of
gray winter,
drowning any
natural
noise in
forward momentum.
Their eyes,
unblinking, steady
on the necks
of the soldiers in
front of
them. Numbness coursing
through
their veins, injected with
dystopian
dreams.
A beast of
progress, snaking
columns of
men, over the next
hill, towards
the inevitable battle
to come,
where losses mean nothing,
and it is
only time that is wasted.
The silent
parade, moving in unison,
leaving
nothing behind,
looking forward
to
nothing.
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