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Oh, weep for Adonais—he's undead!
    And hath been, lo! these interstitial years.
Yellow and black and pale and hectic red,
    His cockney mood consumptively careers.
Upon a bubbling Hippocrene he's drunk
    And dreaming, standing tiptoe on the brink
Of the wide world that late and soon hath sunk
    As space and time to nothingness do sink.
An anguished autumn wind doth howl a HOWL
    Of abject grief that sweeps the graveyard's stones.
The crescent moon observes the downy owl
    That eats a mouse from tail to skull and bones.
Zombie Allan Poe, who's green and unseen,
Is crying, "Happy Birthday Halloween!"
We all know that life can thrive in the most inhospitable of places.
                                             Plants grow from volcanic soil.
                                             Bioluminescence crawls beneath
                                               immense pressure on the ocean floor.
                                             Microbes most likely thrive below the icy,
                                                        radioact­ive surface of Europa.
We all know that life—love—perseveres.  
                                         ­                                 It’s nothing new.

But we don’t talk about
                                            how ******* hard that actually is.  
That’s what the strengths perspective is for.  
What resilience gives name to.  

But what if I don't want to?  What if,
                                                                ­  for today,
                                                                ­                     I’d rather the **** not?  
Is that okay?                           Is that allowed?  
That today I'm the vinca vine dying on the ledge?  
Withered up and not drinking any more water.  

Today, I am every succulent that I’ve ever accidentally killed.  
Today, I am excess formaldehyde.  I am a brain floating in a bell jar,
                        undulating in an existence that is an ethical quagmire.
Today, I am in limbo.  Purgatory.  Stasis and static.  
Suspended upside down in a frozen wasteland, Dante style.  

Tomorrow, I will thaw.  
                                Rise from the soil fist first.
write your grief prompt #25: Read this poem, and as quickly as possible, write.
"Happiness grows back / Like saplings after a forest fire / Barren grief / No longer your primary / residence / That old hollowness / Carved out / Washed/ With holy tears / An old topography of loss / You will follow / Back to life"
Amanda Kay Burke Jul 2021
A thousand chances I gave to you
Each one you carelessly broke
I called you my soulmate
Now that word just makes me choke

Why do I always fool myself
And believe your honeyed lies?
Falling for the next facade
Before the last tear even dries

Our love is a labor of loyalty
But I carry it's heavy weight
Despite how much it wears me out
Or slows down my wobbly gait

Which requires an impressive grip
So I don't drop you from my hands
When most would have given up by now
My tired frame continues to stand

Throughout misadventures
As seasons pass us by
I hold our relationship up
Even when you hardly try

Your absence is tearing me to shreds
Strangling me with misery
And the cuts all over my insides
Bleed out though no one can see

Since you abandoned ship
Feel older than ever before
Loneliness is aging me
From my surface to my core

Seeking refuge from the storm
Safe haven I can't seem to find
Cannot escape the sight of your face
You're everywhere I turn in my mind

But you have no comfort to offer
Except in dreams and memories
So I fill my reality with questions
Stuck in consecutive reveries

The coldest summer I've experienced yet
Though the sunshine is bright overhead
I am frozen straight through the bone
Even with somebody new in my bed

The beat in my chest sounds quieter now
My pulse slow and miniscule
Death would be easier than this I am sure
But I am not a coward
Only a fool

Running circles with my eyes tightly shut
Wasting away as time passes me by
Living life on autopilot
In a stupor
More like a zombie since you said goodbye
Sometimes it feels like my life is a movie I am watching but cannot control
Taylor St Onge Jun 2021
I’m in the dream again:                not the one I had while awake in
the catacombs of St. Callixtus in Rome.  Where the darkness was
so impenetrable that it began to echo.  To look like the mixture of colors
that burst when you rub your eyes too hard for too long.  Like the
neuron rupture before death.  To shape and morph and become liquid.
Where the darkness cobbled itself into a physical form.

Not the dream where                    I kept seeing
flits of my mother out of the corner of my eye.  Behind
                                                                ­                               every street corner.
                                                                ­                   Every turn.  Every tunnel.  
      Reflected in the casts of the bodies in Pompeii.
Mirrored in the waves of the Trevi Fountain.

I’m in the dream where          the soil churned from the bottom to the top.  
                               where          the hand outstretched from the grave.  
                               where          my grandfather clawed his way out and returned to my grandmother﹘sopping wet, covered in thick mud, socks torn, skin sallow and jaundiced, spitting out the wire the embalmers put in his mouth, melting makeup, and ravenously hungry.  And it’s been so
                                                                ­                   long since he was hungry.  

“He came back to me, Taylor,” my grandmother tells me. 
“He came back to me.”
                                        I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s undead.  
                                        I’m physically unable to spit out those words.
And it’s a dream and it’s a dream and it’s a dream,                   but
it just fits so perfectly.  That he would come back to her.  
That death would not be a barrier.  I can’t explain it.                It just is.  
My grandmother is a shell without him.  
The body that’s missing the limb.  
The body that keeps score.
write your grief prompt 10: amorphous prompt
shipwrecked Nov 2020
today felt like I was a zombie walking through a ghost town
..broken..dreary..numb..
interally and externally
i'm officially not okay anymore
11/10/20 | 8:07pm
Lee Carter Oct 2020
[F#m, A, E, F#m, D, A, E, F#m]

Zombie Heart, why do you keep coming back?
Thought I killed you long ago.
Tried to hide from you undead love attack
Ran as far and fast as I could go.

Left you somewhere I hoped I would forget
Dug a heart-shaped grave and threw you in.
Buried you down so deep I haven't finished yet
An endless war I know I'll never win.

[A, E, F#m, F#m]

Do you think I like breaking you?
My hands are stained red.
Do us both a favor and
This time just stay dead.
Happy October!
Ces Sep 2020
The Facebook zombie
Distorts its face:
Contorted, convulsing
A spasmodic smile.

Ignoring internal scars
Emotional wretchedness
Faking with gusto
What the good life is.

The Facebook zombie
Hunkers not for brains
But drools for likes
And virtual applause.

Like dazzling neon lights
Its ego shines bright
"I am the best"
"I am number one"
Says the connoisseur
Of filters and fakes!

The Facebook zombie lumbers
Towards the next bite
The next hit
Mindlessly raising its
Bony hands
As the camera sways
Finding the perfect angle.
Jay M Sep 2020
Talking sleep
Memories I wish to keep
Time knows the tears I weep
As I let my tea steep

Walking with head hung low
Eyes but a dim lit glow
Hidden heart, refuse to let it show
Ever afraid of letting go

Draperies sewn shut
Stolen into a hollow hut
**** the peacock that did strut
Replaced with what
But a weak mutt.

- Jay M
September 24th, 2020
Walking like a zombie, living but unsure what's driving it.
Norman Crane Sep 2020
Mister Maxwell reads the paper
Of the party that he pays for
And with subtle nods agrees
With each printed word he reads
He knows all the phrases to say
About the topics of the day
And he's politically engaged
(Marching in manifestations)
And appropriately enraged
(By violence and discrimination)
To be a hero of society:
A once-born self that's ceased to be,
A real symptom of democracy!
A truly enlightened zombie!
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