The Pilgrim - Craziantix

Hiding in shadows of crumbling walls,

He hears the vultures’ keening calls,

But his life is not yet spent

And the pilgrim labors on.


The stark graffiti catches his glance,

A message written by long-dead hands,

‘The end is near, forgive, repent.’

But the pilgrim labors on.


The home he knew is left in embers,

And everyone that he remembers,

Are nothing but ashes and brittle bone

But the pilgrim labors on.


Like Jonah in the belly of the whale,

The darkness paints his skin so pale.

Yet a single light still spurs him on.

So the pilgrim labors on.


Through dusty desert and windswept world,

His footsteps scraped, his path unfurled,

But his destination he knew not.

So the pilgrim labors on.


His steps move forward, not too fast,

While his mind reflects on the past,

And the horror that man had begot

And the pilgrim labors on.


He’d seen them first when revealed,

As molded metal and shining steel,

Rolling out the factory door,

Like the pilgrim laboring on.


The monster children of Science’s dream,

Their solar panels all agleam,

Mechanized knights of new age lore

While the pilgrim labored on.


The scientists could not predict at all

That machines would raise a clarion call

And bite the hand that feeds.

Still the pilgrim labored on.


Man blacked out the sun and the sky.

Machines poisoned the water supply.

They destroyed each other’s needs.

But the pilgrim labored on.


At last, in reach of his god, he saw the swarm.

He prayed, in vain, “Deliver me from this harm.”

But steel injected venom into his vein.

The pilgrim labored on, no more, ever again.

The End

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