The zombie’s heart, dark as his hair,
the zombie’s face, pale as the air,
the zombie’s thoughts, all blood and gore,
and his eyes, all red and sore!

The zombie wakes to the morning’s choir,
his room lit dark, like a movie noir.
The sun has shown it’s far from dawn.
The zombie howls a dire yawn.

He walks away from the light
rubbing his eyes with all his might.
He gives the wall all his weight
as he moves in search of another light.

Why in hell would you need a door?
It could be walls on all four!
walls that held and tightly hid
those dreams of his nipped in the bud.

“Zombie! Zombie”, the love bird chirps,
the tree leaves hiss, and the wind quips.
“Zombie! Zombie!”, honks a car
and a jogger’s stare from afar.

The zombie smiles a crooked smile,
for he has been called names more vile.
The zombie moves in a poof
back to his little room, the grave with a roof!

“The morning is here”, the zombie hissed,
through his gritted teeth, and tightened fist.
“All good and gay!” the zombie said,
his arms aloft on his shaking head.

The zombie’s thoughts, all blood and gore,
the zombie’s eyes, all red and sore.
Those thoughts he bore to his pillow’s core.
Screaming loud, he lets it all pour.

He turns on his bed, his coffin bed,
pulls the blanket back over his head.
As the blanket flies, a dream falls down.
He pulls it back in with a frown.

He looks at it, heaves a sigh,
his breath still stinking of last night’s high.
The dream burns bright from his breath,
in a hopeful strife before its death.

He holds it close, hugs it tight
holding on with all his might.
The dream moves close and holds on tight,
burning on with all its light!

“Zombie! Zombie!”, cries the wall clock’s bell.
“Zombie! Zombie!”, howls that dog from hell.
“Zombie! Zombie!”, burns the sun so hot!
“Zombie! Zombie!” whispers a kettle to a pot.

The zombie grins while he cries,
like a crackling fire in winter’s ice.
He still smiles his crooked smile
for he would be called names still more vile!

The zombie’s heart beats a dying march.
The zombie’s lips, with a downward arch.
The zombie’s thoughts and pains he bore,
in his eyes, still red and sore!

The zombie sleeps in his grave,
his dream still burning on so brave.
Though with creaks and scars and smell of gin,
he still has his crooked grin!

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