Zombie

Reading a thread
a torn ribbon of mind and body
The sweat and stink of an idea happening
Now
I remember

Pulling the threads out of my mind and into electrical impulses

Bodies ruled by an overmind rot

I drank deeply, without reservation
It was blood!

"And the rain stained the brick a darker red"

His compact frame and bald head, light beard and limited facial expressions
left them fascinated by his speed, slow motion replays of each step
and how it seemed the final push could turn
inches into miles

A runner who defines his event, with each step a pause rotating around time
a being caught by wings on their hands and feet by the pulse of
a moment before impact to glide over
a memory of what is

Wings on the hands and feet and naval touching the ocean. Sleeping cliffs
in the distance with arches that lead to a history before
writing, to the first time honey was
transported to the peaks
where sunshine was all that was known
before the descent into night where claws grow from the touch
of greater grandparents and battle marred swords held by rotting leather

Dance of cutting motions, cuts that made our future and now further
through blood, flesh and the sharp stars of struggle
it all sounds easy now, the race to the end of time,
but it was a long and broken limp

skeletons invite you to hear them tell the truth
the victor invites you to focus on his point of concentration
He runs and each step is saved from landing
impossibly postponed, gliding low
each inch added to become a mile
each mile a tale we welcome but cannot hear
from the mouth with no lips

Each voice gasping as the racers low glide stretches
closer and closer to the end, paused impossibly
The moment suspended, wings on our hands and feet
Navels to the ocean
Fingers to the planets and stars.

I see no explanation

For shadow clouds to move so smooth
Over trees overloved by the sun, never a winter.
The shade of dreams passing over her constant mind
For goats and not sheep that climb a vertical cliff
Just to taste the salt of the earth

For ocean breath whispering her sighs
amidst screaming birds

Perfect is the enemy of the Good
But this...

This great Wanderer, lush and forbidding,
Is least hostile for guests

Her bones neatly in her flesh, brown skin, I am watching
Only Night can eclipse
This dark lady, full, naked and green, turning in the water

Who is she, and what color is her hair, hidden under blue hoody
What is the truth in that shape and shade of lying eyes

They are just a pattern that moths use
To make them look like she is watching