There are stories that flit around the quarantine zone.

Of men that have seen many o' things.
Of men that haven done many o' things.
Men that have endured many o' things.
These stories will always exist.
Fantasies about men who fought demons in a land of green mist.
Old "memories" of leather coated bikers.


Names are few and far in between in these legends.


Old wise tales of pragmatism gone awry.
Hammers thrown against steel.

Moral lessons of how much a man can lose.
Before he himself is lost, forever.

People who're so far in the neck of the bottle.
That they're lost to the world.

Men that can't change.
Even in the face of absolution.

Folklore of monsters that roam.
With minds that're long gone.

Tales of men who acted like a stone.
But were burnt to cinder when the fire arrived.

Anecdotes of those with everything to lose.
But still put it all on the line.

Stories of our successors.
The hope we place in them.

Parables of heroism to others.
Even at the cost of ones very being.

Epics of men that walked many roads.
Yet among all of them, death followed close.

And chronicles of family men.
Emptied out, and made whole again.


We live in peculiar times indeed,
More peculiar than the world's ever witnessed.

The quarantine zone binds us together, by choice or not.

When the tides drawn back in their floods,
We may yet find the bodies that we left so long ago.

We may yet find evidence of these fables.
For now, they exist only in tongue.

In writing
.
.
.
In memory.