A Number of Weeks Later...
We used to joke about the living dead,
how we might survive a zombie apocalypse,
or learn to love brains, ha ha ha...
No one’s laughing any more;
humor is rare when survival is uncertain
and the food is almost gone.
I hide when I can, and run when I must.
I’ve managed to avoid them so far,
but the smells—they follow me wherever I go.
Rotting meat, mixed with decaying blood,
plus all the guts, puke, piss and shit—
no one realized it would smell this bad.
I hear them out there, and I’m sure
somehow, they know I’m in here.
I wonder if it still hurts, afterward...
© 2020 - dustygrein
#poetry #freestyle
#pomesbydusty
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