I, The Undead

A poetic commentary on the "wisdom" of conventional lifestyles. 
__________________________________________________________

They always said the impending Zombie apocalypse
would occur
when no one saw it coming.
I certainly didn’t
I don’t remember dying,
But I do remember living.
I remember the beaches and swimming,
I remember the forests and camping,
I remember hiking, sky diving,
martial arts.
I remember when I had the power in my legs,
the endurance in my lungs to charge up the hillside at full speed
to catch the football
thrown to me by my equally capable comrade from over 30
yards off.
No more.
Now I see bloodshot eyes in the mirror,
mutilations, deformities creeping along my body,
the crooked bones in my fingers that once upon a time could
stand those eight hour shifts at the computer
the arch forming in my backbone to match the shape of the low
budget chair
I see it in my aimless walk
the back and forth waddle
half asleep, half awake,
not really either,
A little of both, perhaps?
The scientist’s stimulators not working:
give the monster a monster,
that shot should give him a boost for 5 hours!
Will work immediately!
--It doesn’t work,
and the natural sleep naturally broken by the patterns that form,
that the body gets used to.
How much longer until the transformation is complete?
How much longer until my arm shakes at nothing more than the
weight of a quart of milk—unable to bear the burden of less
than a pound?
How much longer until my legs stop functioning at a pick up
and step pace?
How much longer until I no longer question how much longer,
and take the place amongst the rest of the zombie horde below
ground where the tunnels make the paths that lead them onward
even after they have all but forgotten why?
I don’t remember dying,
but I am no longer living,
“Life” sucked the life out of me,
and here I walk, forward, half asleep, half awake,
bloodshot eyes,
I, the undead.

___________________________________________________

This poem appeared in Voice of The Bards
www.localgemspoetrypress.com/bookstore.html