Zombie3

Some of them run at you – you must be fast
to hope to get away. And some are slow.
The key to your survival is to know
which ones are which. There was a time, now past,

when they all shambled, all stank of the grave
that they’d left recently. And they were made
by hand, by craftsmen. You were still afraid.
But they were tame, somebody’s household slave

The quick wild ones are feral, a disease
that you’ll catch if they catch you. Yet they treat
the old slow kind politely if they meet.
Offer them bits of people. On their knees.

The dead are snobs. The stench of long decay
outranks the slick young beast who rose today.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to

  1. annathepiper says:

    Yay, two of my favorite things! Zombies, and sonnets!

  2. 0olong says:

    This is pretty great.

    ( posted a link here a few days ago…)

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