by Nick Gisburne
The Shadows, without feeling, have no need
For dialogue. Why would they? We are meat.
From silent sleep, awakening to feed,
They find us helpless, huddled in defeat.
They fell from nowhere, centuries ago.
The mercy is their number: only three.
But peace, release, can never last. We know
Tomorrow they will surface from the sea.
The creatures are impossible to kill.
We tried. We died. We found another way.
Accepting the unthinkable, we fill
The beaches with an offering. We pay.
The sick, the poor, the lowest and the least,
On these, and on our shame, the Shadows feast.
