Final Toll
Death shall rise above the ground,
is not heard, makes no sound.

Known only by its evil signs,
as pitch and deep as unlit mines.

Plentiful growths of roses black,
and not a thorn a vine shall lack.

All living will fall to the thorns' poison prick,
all sent for the flames of Hell to lick.

Dark blossoms emit the odor vile,
that will travel the longest mile.

Asphyxiate the lungs and burn,
make the stomach quiver and churn.

Beasts of long since dead appear,
their painful moans and wails all hear.

Teeth and claws as sharpened knives,
ripping flesh where it lies.

Breath that's ghastly, hot, and foul,
intoxicates the air with every howl.

With their horrid, penetrating leer,
making the strongest cower with fear.

Long knotted fur caked with mud,
and powerful hands slick with fresh blood.

A roaming mist taints the water,
as it starts to boil hotter.

A burning acid becomes the ocean,
rivers flow in churning motion.

Trees die, become homes for demons,
deadly marshes give off acrid steam and,

engulf all who attempt to pass,
swallowing every living mass.

The sun will fade, turn cold and then will,
set free all things that are nocturnal.

Winged creatures will soar the sky,
and swoop to lacerate passers-by.

Raging storms will crush erections,
causing continuous destruction.

When all is dead the dead will sing,
and then the final death toll will ring.
Can you imagine?