by David Roderick


I am the walking dead.
I am already past.
My past comes back to haunt,
Like yesterday's corpses.
I was never alive.
My biochemical reactions,
To yesterday's news,
Bred discontent by the daily views,
Of how this plague speads,
Like butter across bread:
The bread being the human gene pool.
No colour, nor creed, are spared.
It's like they are all mercilessly slain,
To lie in graves.
It's like there are forces stronger than gravity.
We are not the dominant species.