Plague

There are spiders, spiders everywhere.

Red. Black. Red. Black.

The black, reaching out in all directions;

A vicious line of red bisecting the black.

The red moves the black in all directions;

and when let loose, their bite is overwhelming.

If you hear them coming it is too late to run.

No one is spared.

They do not know mercy.

There is a cluster of spiders falling from the sky, blown in the baking wind;

Dropping where they may,

Covering the earth with their black and their red, eight directions, all at once

Only to rise up In swirling torrents, Feeding on themselves In an endless frenzy Before striking down once more.

You cannot fight them. There are too many.

You cannot fight them. They are too strong.

Perhaps we could have stopped them coming. We were warned that they were coming.

But we did not listen.

It is too late to stop them now.

They come and they go.

And we, who are left Slowly stand in what's left.

It is over.

until they return.