Strolling through the city of ghosts Mine and others Life lessening; remnants many The only commodities exponentially growing The less-ness and the dead Faces curl by, mighty and mellow Jesting jesters Secret stalkers Smooth and lined Chiselling the face of ages Charcoal sketches in a dusty book My neck cranes from the tarmac To sandstone stretching skyward Behind blacked shades I hasten a look Faces carved into stone statues Corrosion of time changes their masks And I see you there Dancing among the gargoyles Faces I’ve known Faces I’ve kissed Faces long dismissed Echoes of ancient conversations Undertows hidden behind music Soothing ears and fears with every pluck and stroke Muffling hyper consternation Rapid beats in the throat Lost words imprint the atmosphere Bare toes curl into the black cracked pavement They keep remaking it Covering the splits The old tracks; spectre paths Undertows ripple underfoot Soon only remnants shall remain Ruptured I’m one of them; a mere echo In this Undertow City.
Bumbling sedate-like, a year on, rotters are no different to the local junkies. Except, the rotter isn’t coming at you with its drooping face, skin pulling down at the darkened cavernous eye-sockets, hanging loose off the jawbone, slurring; “Any spare change pal?”
They’re still using that old line, except by change they mean anything that can be offered to dealers in exchange.
I prefer the real dead-walking — even they won’t touch a junkie for their fix. Shame, maybe that’d help us all; thin the heard. Though, I’m not prepared for the sight of the dead on something like speed-meat.
This drabble was first published by Reanimated Writers Press in their anthology 100 Word Bigger Zombie Bites.