The Walking Dead

The walking dead with emotionless stare, eyes a window to the soul, traumatized from the war that rages, leaving open wounds of glow. Face down in the mire, entrenched in the realm of understanding, yet they have ears but do not hear, and eyes but cannot see, dulled senses of polluted soul leaves a lasting plea. Around and around you go marching to the beat, in single file, see them march, marching with their feet, as one follows another and another follows one, the mass of people marching, marches to the beat. The walking dead that's walking on life's broken trail of tears, grace and hope once companions, lost with no more years, falling off a ledge into a tunnel of fear, where all the kings that have ever lived could not breathe life into you again. The absence of light on the darkest of night, removed from all that is sane, the twinkle is gone from your eyes as your dreams vanished without a trace. Desolation and despair are all that remains, a prisoner to the very end, around and around you go still marching to the beat. The reflection you see in the dimly lit light is a reflection of me.