When it gets dark, the churning can’t be seen,
It happens so slowly that the mortals believe none is keen.
As justice loses its sheen,
Murderous zombies use their rules to prune and preen,
The absurd plays out in the cold,
While the robed play the fiddle
‘cause they can’t be bold.
The churning though continues,
The ripples in the cauldron agitate,
Emotions, pungent and sweet,
Violently commingle as if creating a mutinous treat,
The lid tries to hold on and seal the fate,
It keeps the agitating cauldron in its present state,
It sways, while the zombies balance their girth and totter with mirth.
The lid flies off.
The humongous concoction meanders, potent and menacing,
Down the streets burning and scorching,
A warm hue is seen peeping,
Through the crack of the ravaged Earth,
Joyously weeping.