The zombie pulls himself out of his grave
and stands, a rotting husk against the night;
But no abandoned house, no island rave,
Nor shopping mall arrests his failing sight.
He sniffs vacant boulevards hungrily
and lunges toward a cat he cannot catch.
A squirrel perhaps? He cannot climb a tree;
The chattering rodents are more than his match.
No teenagers cavorting on the stones;
No graverobbers to fall under his teeth.
No satanists--he's withered and alone
As any three-week old memorial wreath.
He's hungry, has no victims, and he stinks;
"Things sure ain't like they used to be," he thinks.
1 comment:
Back when I was a kid, we had REAL brains to eat!
Nicely done.
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