Seldom are the streets quiet
The children age by the window light
Outside it is spring

March brings the turning of the cold
The adults fester and rot, feeding themselves to their resting places

Wicked things brew far and wide
Sizzling and spewing like acid dissolving bone and flesh

The morning moon glimmering 
Time has burned itself to the wax
Everyone is meandering their minds
Searching for a smooth door handle to grasp

There are doors but none to open
There are windows but none to peer out of
There are cars but no one to steer them
This is the apocalypse