Wormholes
Wormholes.
Punching all the stars as if they-
Taste like dinner in heaven.
Shouldn’t be filled with zombies.
But they are on the loose.
Drastic.
Churning without sickness.
Just glass patterns all about.
Grasshoppers leap out of the way.
Wormholes begin again.
Connect like tornados.
Laugh like laughter with no mouth or eyes.
Cut up blades of grass.
Without me.
Trees caving in.
Shouldn’t be filled with zombies.
They actually aren’t.
Feed the wormholes like empty caskets.
Begging for the scraps.
Grasp less than a zombie hand with only a pinky finger left.
Empty caskets…
They are not.
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