The Gathered Outside My House--Pick A Line and Run With It Poetry Contest
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The atmosphere was thick with souls
whose identities were full of holes.
The gathered outside my house
filling in their blank spaces with
anger, hatred, boredom, and despair.
These zombies are not dead.
They are on the left, right, everywhere
in the swamp of our government
in the aorta of Britian's parliament.
They circulate like cuckoos,
like cool fools,
like inebriated hyenas,
like improvised cretins,
like malandrins,
like dishonest bums,
like mindless chatterboxes.
They are not in the cemeteries.
They are on the ground.
They breathe like living beings.
They walk like sore losers.
They are remorseless.
They are not humans.
They are not dead
They sleep under the trees at night
under the oaks, under the mapou trees
with the werewolves.
By day, they stroll like vagabonds
in shambles, like crazy foxes
wandering around in offices and schools,
on the beaches, and under the bridges.
They are literally everywhere.
They work in the Administration.
They do not think much.
They wreak havoc, troubles, and start wars
due to actions, inactions, and exactions.
How sad!
Why do we keep silent?
Do we not care?
We say and do 'nichts,' nothing, 'nada.'
We are all zombified, flouted, and baffled
by the agents, by a way of life,
by a system that destroys, punishes,
and never is reconciled.
We are imprisoned deep in the well
We all sleep and walk,
some by day
others by night.
Zombies are not dead.
The gathered outside our houses are alive
They are literally everywhere.
Copyright ©
Sara Etgen-Baker
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