Photo by sevensixfive on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

Dessicated

The dead line up in regiments —
it’s always about time — they march
to ghoulish drums with femur sticks
and rib cages played like xylophones,
their snaggle toothed sergeant-at-arms
drones on, his chattering, chipped teeth
click commands like echolocation,
sundering ligamentless light horsemen
into piles, before the charge is called,
the lich smiles, and the line is dredged
by a mammoth pulling a gory sledge
and a wedge forms of spearmen
and assorted limbs, their battle hymn
with verses counting virtues, dedicated
to the never defeated army of the dessicated.