Zombie Tales- Running to stand still chapter 3rd w/ poem

Every day is like the last
doing the same, as in the past
heading for death, my walk is fast
The trail I walk is very vast.

I take this way, to ease my pain
for everyday my life does drain
away from body and from brain
never really becoming insane.

To lose oneself in fantasy
is wanting more of misery
to live a life in history
is crumbling skin of paper tree.

To shuffle down this decaying trail
toward boredom walks, with no avail
driven on without a sail
eternal sleep, oblivion hail.

Zombie Tales-
Running to stand still
chapter 3rd w/ poem

I awake from zombie sleep. My open gut heaves as I get to my feet and stretch, uncurling myself like a lizard from a hot rock. I walk back into town. The bee’s nest has returned to normal. I walk right up to, and pass without challenge, those who days (or years) before had wished me dead and called me thief. Stupid, ignorant flies. They buzz away, with no thoughts for tomorrow. In perfect complement with their lack of concern for thoughts of yesterday.

I meant to supply up, then leave for better things. But bugs amuse me. The unceasing efforts to which they will go just for a taste of my rotting self. a  feast upon a dead thing, all they ever want from me. Watching them always passes time and my brains being oatmeal, I did not have a strong capacity for forward thinking. Almost immediately  upon hearing the first buzzz and casting my cold white eye upon a target, I forgot my ambition.

It happened near the home of the towns self-proclaimed top dog. A prominent citizen, he was the last stop of my forgotten plan. But forgetting to care, I made him my first stop instead. Home sweet home, the picture on his wall said. I laughed to myself at the joke, though it be joke, only to me. This guy thought himself a peace-keeper, and patted himself on the back daily. 

He had a weapon upstairs. Yes, I knew him and his home sweet home,  just like I knew everything else. His weapon was smaller than I prefered, but effective enough, if handled with care. It would suffice. A means to an end.

This being, my zombie adventure, and interlude if I may, as the harvest ripens.

I zombie shuffled in wanton oblivion. Dull, dull, scrape, shuffle. I saw warm bodies in the home but they were not immune to my bored contempt. I shuffled up the stairs, opened the door, Where is that weapon? I’ll grab it and be on my zombie way.” But the top dog set up such a howling, I had to leave  before even I had begun.

I rolled outa there as fast as my feet would carry me. Back out-of-town, back to the rock. I folded myself again, preparing to melt away as is my method. But a zombie minute feels like a year. Sleep would see the peace keeper’s ire cooled.  

Yet, I had done with sleep. If I were not already dead, I would surely kill myself from sheer predictable boredom.

So I rested without sleep, till my wounds did close. Not very much time at all. And I walked out further afield. Closing my eyes, and spinning in a circle. Or perhaps, it was simply a hillock which propelled my catatonic corpse in the direction it went.

Zombie shuffles, to the horizon, wishing it were ellusive but knowing it wasnt. Not when all  horizons look exactly the same.

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