February 18th, 2011


I thought I was done with this...

but apparently not.


They are so many. Stand on a high place
and watch them shamble. Gray as winter cloud
the sea of faces, and they moan so loud
it's like a scream. And every single face

is marked with all the signs of quick decay
and yet they still stand up, and wander round.
It's like a flood. Those standing on high ground
watch each last bit of dry land fall away

and know there's no way they can stop the tide.
Sooner or later tides will always turn
but meanwhile there's no wood for you to burn,
no food to eat, and no friend at your side.

They are all dead. Don't tell yourself the lie
that you'll survive. Just walk down there and die.

(no subject)


She is the walking dead. No matter who
she was before, you must burn her with flame
because the dead can never be the same
as they were once. And she will make you, too,

a thing that rots and staggers. Take a blade
and cut her head off. And ignore her moan.
She let them bite her. Left you all alone.
What sort of love was it that she displayed

by dying? Rotting? Soon her lovely face
will fall away; and soon her matted hair
will drop in clumps. You never knew despair
before you saw her die and rise. No trace

of her is left in it. And through your head
this thought runs– though I live, I too am dead.