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Poem

We cured death on a Tuesday,
launched the trial on a Thursday,
by Friday, 14% of the test group
was gnawing on the janitorial staff.

Still, the press was kind.
“Remarkable resilience,” they wrote,
as Unit 42A chewed through its restraints,
and tried to bite a cameraman.

We called them SoulSavers™,
engineered for eternal youth,
a proprietary blend of nanites, CRISPR,
and just a dash of hubris.

ReVive™ hit the market with glowing ads:
"Because Forever is a Family Value."
But the legal fine print… oh, the fine print:
May cause mild memory loss, spontaneous moaning, and cannibalistic cravings.

They rose in boardrooms first,
CEOs with perfect teeth
tearing into interns
like gourmet hors d'oeuvres.

By Q3, the infection was global,
but stocks soared--
because someone monetized the mayhem,
packaged brains in biodegradable boxes.

The living now hide in Costco bunkers,
bartering soup for silence,
while ReVive™’s jingle
plays softly from every abandoned screen:

“You can’t spell ‘afterlife’ without 'life'--
Sign here, and live again!”

So yes, we cured death.
We also cured peace.
And now we walk among the ruins,
clawing for comfort,
with half a heart and half a face,
still under warranty.

Author's Note:
This poem is what happens when you read Tom Woody’s contest prompt and accidentally engage the undead half of your brain. It’s a free verse romp through biotech gone wrong, corporate chaos, and a sprinkle of satire. No contest entry--just undead fun.

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