Motors quietly spring into life, propelling the killing machines like clockwork scythes, wreaking havoc and trouble and strife, knowing no value of human life. Robotic motions showing no emotion, just forward motion to the enemy they march, through water and mud and railway arches the machines come alive to dominate the world they strive.
Chopping and flailing, and shooting at will, humans cut down like butter, blood oozing through the gutter, yet not a word do they utter, not a murmur or stutter, just bodies adding to the carnage of death and clutter. Those machines of death marauding in a land of weak feeble tribes.
Metal networks of destruction; death of a race, unrelenting, uncaring, unfeeling, charge of the death machines. Hour upon hour the country they scour more bodies pile up by the hour. East to west, North to South, machines push on to continue their rout. Then, as if they had finished with the earth, they all disappear into the sea, leaving a sneak preview of what the world would soon be.
© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017
Rhythm of the Ink 
Thanks for the share
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