Walking Dead

Their eyes bear a vacancy,

as they stare straight through.

Pace and tone measured,

only one goal to pursue.

A forced twitch of the lips,

timed here and there.

No emotion or inflection,

nothing they share.

Their heart faintly knocks,

on their ribs, an iron cage.

But the pang is diluted,

the gloom it can’t assuage.

A weave of artful phrases,

a veil of arrogant slurs.

Crushed by the horrid past,

that’s what the heart prefers.

And why do they turn so?

cause they died very slow.

Gradual cuts over the years,

turning warm blood to snow.

No one ever sees them bleed,

there’s no life left to die.

They are the walking dead,

for whom no one will cry.