A Zombie Apocalyptic Poem

This was inspired by a love. And my love for zombies. 

Coincidentally, I wrote this shortly before I discovered Warm Bodies.

Awesome Book. Awesome Movie. 

A Zombie Apocalyptic Poem

In a world dominated by zombies,

I though I’d be a hero.

Thought I’d keep running along a road I knew would end in a chasm.

Falling down into the sky where just around the corner 

the lost souls of the wandering undead would welcome me.

You see,

I can’t  gain the grounds to make myself believe 

it is worth living in a world where death is inevitable.

You can’t fight it.

Sure I can fire a gun,

Wield a knife,

But I can’t withstand the weight of every sleepless night spent waiting for death.

Its inhuman to understand this idea.

I looked into her eyes, the eyes I first fell in love with.

I felt her still, she held my gaze as she did on our first date

And despite the blood stains on her tattered sweatshirt 

and the chunk of skin removed from her crooked smile,

She was beautiful.

Her left hip didn't seem to carry the swing she had when she walked,

 decomposed fingers curled around an object lost forgotten,

I held that hand,

And that hand held my heart.

She was my first true love,

And although her figure was now of rotting flesh

 I could not drop the gaze of an unbeating heart because the 

pump

pump pump 

pump

Pumping of my own drone out my senses,

Because all I saw were her lips,

All I heard was her voice

And all I felt was her embrace.

I wasn't the hero.

Wasn't her hero.

To accept death was to accept every moment could be my last,

Our last,

I wasn't the savior plowing through fields of the dead,

I didn't pop 9mm into skulls,

Or send machetes through the skin of someone else’s lover.

I was behind locked doors,

Laced with 2 by 4's,

Plywood framing out my fears of the world I once knew.

Where the bigots that messed with me carried on an ordinary day...

Moaning about the rest of the world.

My own groans were conceived in the starvation of my own preservation waiting for my last meal at the end of a barrel.

I was ready for it all to be over,

Ready for the devil to unlock his gates,

Ready to be saved,

You see I’m unsure of my religion,

I’m unsure if holy arms great you at white gates,

Or if I’ll come back with a new body,

But how can life exist past death?

If heaven is so great, why aren't we already there?

And how am I to be reincarnated if all new life ceases to exist?

There is no hope in a zombie apocalypse.

Because thumbs will only get you so far,

And words can be great for the history books,

But sentences can’t fix a society that isn't there.

Metaphors won’t heal the infected,

Assonance can’t end the frustration in my starvation for this preservation of life.

I can’t begin to explain this disease,

Its inhuman to understand this idea.