Tomorrow, is a yesterday,
blended into an endless fray,
born in toxic decay,
sprinkle a little bit of pain,
it's a stain,
restrained to be strained and stressed.
but no rest for the wicked,
eyes faded in this mess.
still shuffling today,
zombie only partly, please stay away.
Shambling rot, doesn't want you to taste,
doesn't want you to see his face,
see the vicious strain,
of this disease in his brain,
from speaking to him now, your words can wait.
What you'll take
from what he'll say,
doesn't matter, he's alone anyways.
always asking a lot,
he is what he's not,
which is why he never wants to talk.
Whenever it stops,
and the zombie doesn't stumble, he's able to walk,
it lasts for the ride up, but the coaster is yet to start.
Falling to pieces but keeping the parts,
to keep moving sometimes you need to lose who you are.
And that's why the skin and bone corpse you see is looking starved,
He's missing a vital organ,
not hunger for the brains, but missing a heart.
Like they say though, in this world, without one you'll go far.
He'd rather let his talking head be hung up like a work of art.
Maybe then people will change,
probably not, probably way too late,
but he's hanging out somewhere
and the people might appreciate
for a while before they carry on with their day,
as he collect dust from years of being on display
maybe somebody can relate
to the zombie in the glass case.