The culture of zombies

is now complete.  Look around you

at all the repeating heads.

Their precious politics, their brave religions

are all gone, and they don't know it.

The wheel descends a strange

rotating spire.  Sparks are tossed

like flares into the granary.

I kneel in the dark

and protect my drums.

I take up the feather dress

of the once departed

forever to return.

I chant like a beggar in my last

clean linen.

What was it that the ring

of mindless eyes told you to do?

How did you get so good

at walking sightless?

I no longer scream these questions.

A new kind of amusement

trickles through from the divine.

The horns of a goat grow

from unbitten flesh.

The mesh of souls

is upon me now

I can see them without their smiles.

Leather wings cover up the miles.

The surface of infinity is

rounded and soft.

There is a home for consciousness

in all that's lost to this fleeting moment

known by its rotting fruits.

But only flesh can satisfy the dead

flesh and its tired morsels

painting adult playgrounds

and their chain door handles

with the traffic of a deeper red.