The Walking Dead

Another day chasing another dollar.
Fist clenched on a wad of dirty bills
as it labors to break through a rocky, rooty surface
after a 30-something year slumber
piled under tons of earth and rubble.
A deadly escape of sorts, a mecca
compared to the mindless robotics of the living,
sipping on bean water
to keep our eyes plastered open
on this joyride we call life.
But what is life?
What is it to live?
A blink away from its antithesis,
a release, a relief,
like gas escaping this vacuous sack we call our own,
as if we ever really owned it in the first place,
as if we ever really owned anything
besides the tumbling thoughts in our heads,
like dull stones being beckoned to shine,
polishing the turds that live between our ears,
like a diamond, once a dusty piece of coal that had a stressful day,
only to come out on the other end the picture of wealth,
sustenance, success,
gilded and sparkling like a top hat atop a rotting tooth,
though the bones turn to dust, the precious stone remains.
And to think they told us
that our true treasure was waiting in some fairy-tale land
promised by the king of zombies,
robed in majesty of sweaty, bloody rags,
hung on the splintering fruits of his own labor,
betrayed by trade and industry,
a tale as old as rusty nails
and as fresh as a rose gold, miniature, handheld computer,
a dark master,
training us to roam this dying planet like death itself,
hunchbacked, stiffened, writhing, rheumatic beings
seeking to feed on the decay of our own kind,
tearing at the flesh and the mind
as we swipe, swipe, swipe,
until we render each other lifeless,
walking dead,
praying for purgatory or even better,
anxiously awaiting our turn
to curl up inside this barren earth
and make our peace with mediocrity.


 

The Walking Dead
Eve Poetry Prompt
October 8, 2019

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