The Living Dead

[heslopian]

How do we survive becoming accidents;
bipeds of life split from the ether
on attempting a return...

We wanted to regress, click the button,
sound the horn, we would-be shades
now flickering in weakened wax.

These cobblestones, that bakery,
the rows and rows of cakes,
dished up by a luscious tart

we often thought about splitting
and dunking in our tea.
Now they're a new reality,

unnatural and weird, separated from the one
which ended at the broom cupboard.
Death, like trains, is always late,

passing through many platforms
as myriads of lone riders walk the aisles,
take their seats, or miss the doors like us.