My vision starts to fade again,
     the room I see replaced.
Yolanda and the bludgeoned corpse,
     like memory effaced.
Just as before the word repeated,
     burrows ever deep.
I wish once more that it will end,
     to feel the sting of sleep.

Aware that I'm still moving,
     though with eyesight undermined.
I give myself unto the dreams,
     to seek, to search, to find.
The streets appear, just like before,
     a chilly mid-November.
A misremembered movie,
     with a cast I can't remember.

Children playing in the street,
     cavorting with the cobbles.
Shouting, screaming, joyful sounds,
     that quickly turn to squabbles.
A mother yells from concrete yard,
     seeking out her child.
A boy responds in scruffy shorts,
     with mud and dirt defiled.

Each house a home, so full of life,
     the happiness complete.
And straining eyes not far ahead,
     the name of city street.
Affixed aside the furthest house,
     a sign of black and white.
The words on which I hang a hope;
     my memoirs expedite.

Yet try I might, I cannot read,
     the glyphs too out of reach.
As if they're written white on white,
     or drowned in wicked bleach.
Eroded, thin, the black unseen,
     its purpose lost, ablated.
The souvenirs, as white as snow,
     from colour liberated.

As quick they come, the flashes fade,
     the fear, I hear is near.
And through the gloom I start to climb,
     like solo mountaineer.
On darkest snow, my picks ascend,
     as body moves alone.
The fog inside continues on,
     a melancholy drone.

The pain is dull but present,
     and I feel the anchor weigh.
As steaming ship with torment load,
     ne'er to drift away.
My body trips, I feel it fall,
     yet limbs seem disconnected.
Each sense is saying different things,
     each one of them affected.

Agony from body screams,
     and joins the cramp of mind.
My blood is flowing faster,
     as my wit is left behind.
Crescendo builds, I hold my head,
     and squeeze once more my skull.
Rolled in ball I yell aloud,
     to germinate the lull.

But in my bones, my soul perhaps,
     I know what happens next.
The reading of a single word;
     a reading from that text.
And then I see it, feel it more,
     the pressure lies in wait.
As "George" I wail, the second word,
     on which to speculate.

I am left alone again,
     when pain releases grip.
And though my body tired and cold,
     my heart beats gentle skip.
My eyes are closed and such I keep them,
     fearing sight unseen.
My world on edge, so volatile,
     the spark in gasoline.

Courage now I muster,
     though I do not know quite how.
Heaven's eyes must rest on me,
     and strength they doth endow.
I open lids, the sunlight floods,
     I lay in shape of star.
Panting, gasping, self composing;
     modern repertoire.

And glancing to my side I find,
     her look of odd delight.
Perhaps she's proud of murder,
     her accomplishment of plight.
"I'm glad you're safe", she mentions,
     though care not overtly seen.
Perhaps she knows not that her deeds,
     to me are most obscene.

The entrance to my home, the door,
     through which my family rest.
Is torn asunder, hanging limp,
     function-less, bereft.
I know the fate of Bertholdt,
     my dearest trusted friend.
But Mother, Father, sweet Alisha,
     also met their end?

"You killed them all?" I speak the words,
     the lumps now in my throat.
Rise up fast and catch,
     as sweetest tears they doth promote.
Slow at first they tug,
     the very corners of my eyes.
Just begging for to be released,
     and with lashes fraternise.

They prise their way, inside to out,
     through forgèd shaft parading.
Drowning every lash so deep,
     in saline waters wading.
She places hand upon my knee,
     "You know it wasn't real?"
And anger swells, like bodyguard,
     protecting my ordeal.

"How would you know?" I ask the girl,
     "He told me what you are!
Murderer! Fanatic!"
     Now I pick at lurid scar.
Her silence is surprising,
     not quite what I expected.
She sits there almost, motionless,
     never more dejected.

"Well?" I burst, my breath in gasps,
     needy and erratic.
Composure bursts like bubble,
     unpredictable, sporadic.
"My family! My family!"
     I yell and heel the soil.
And then my body's standing,
     whilst my blood begins to boil.

The building I have lived in,
     my residence of sorts.
Begins to crack and crumble,
     and to dust it now resorts.
I cover face with elbow as,
     the ashen cloud proceeds.
Coating all in grey deposits,
     conspirators to weeds.

"We have to leave, right now!" she says
     and sounds of the undead,
fill my head resounding,
     as my anger meets my dread.
I stand for moments longer whilst,
     evaluating choice.
Sprint and leave her far behind,
     or heed still beating voice.

With haste I look to doorway,
     now crumpled stone and lumber.
Perchance they may still be alive,
     having dodged eternal slumber.
But on horizon clear as day,
     the beast's brigade advances.
And know it well, alone I'm doomed,
     she amplifies my chances.

"I promise I'll explain it all
     Your family's alive."
Her eyes of blue extolling truth,
     as the undead rise to thrive.
Her cheeks now grey, the colour gone,
     desaturated hue.
But shining through a pair of stars,
     the eyes of cobalt blue.

The scouts of demon's army,
     though named only for their speed.
Dwarf my other fears;
     rising quick to supersede.
The gnashing of disfigured jaws,
     and gait so oft bizarre.
Forever now accursed to roam,
     and bear progression's scar.

I nod, I cannot speak right now,
     my voice misplaced in thought.
I sense her understanding,
     of a tension all too taught.
She starts to run, I follow quick
     my legs already ache.
And squinting down I see the blood.
     that rubble sharp did make.

A wooded region stands ahead,
     though day, still dimply lit.
The leaves so thick that bosky banks,
     are all the trees permit.
Dead leaves crunch softly underfoot,
     a rug of red and brown.
The colours raging contrast,
     of the forest's fallen crown.

A crack rings out, a rifle shot,
     from trunk a ricochet.
Shards of sweet Acacia wood,
     become organic spray.
"The Reapers" Shouts Yolanda,
     then, "Quickly we must go!"
And once again I'm on the trail,
     of that cryptic Dynamo.

She's quick, she's fast. I can't keep up.
     How long has she been here?
Her constant drive to save,
     despite my absence for a year.
I'm torn again, I need to hear,
     the things she has to say.
My memory and psyche formed,
     from total disarray.