A zombie knows precisely what he wants.
Purity of purpose guides his every spastic step.
He stumbles his way through Dadeland Mall,
oblivious to low low prices and everything must go.
Crashing into shopping carts and tipping over stalls,
he is as thoughtless and as empty as the cold, vented air
that gently ruffles the filthy shirt he was buried in,
wholly numb from the broken toes to rotted earlobes.
The smell of strolling flesh inflames his relentless hunger
into hell-bent lust, a hunger that screams to be sated.
All these yummy shoppers are wafting their fragrance of mortal meat,
all searching ravenously for a bangle to kill their own endless ache.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Whatever is happening shows up here.
1 comment:
sometimes, when I make those long walks 'haunting' for who know what, I go accompanied by a zombie....other times I am the zombie.
Post a Comment