A Walk With A Zombie I
A lone and level expanse of darkening heath
carpeted by maquis. Threads of footpaths.
A tapestry of twill-tones:
violetbrowngreen. No trees.
Starting where the sky fell
to land and dotted back to the beholder's eye:
silver, of sky-to-earth-fallen divots
And rising from each- mists
that took the shouldery shapes of men
drifted off, like childhood, or smoke
off caps coiled and banged with a brick.
Suddenly beside me- the melancholy zombie-
(at least it said it was a zombie) hand at its lips
staring moonward over its shoulder,
trudging along on watery legs,
Matching my strides,
trailing me like a shadow cast
glancing over its shoulder for what...(?) assurance? ,
as if out of sorts in Time.
as if afraid to have climbed too early
or too late from the damp earth, oozing bogwater,
the discus moon behind stained
like a yellow armchair.
'I am free, now, ' it breathed,
'free to walk about. Free till
(using the free word three times)
'to what? ' I wondered aloud.
'Never mind, ' advised the zombie. 'to live in the moment.'
Good advice I'd heard before- so I said,
'sounds fine to me.'
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Comments about this poem (A Walk With A Zombie I by Morgan Michaels )
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