walking-dead

The walking dead
Is walking back
T where the air is black
And the mirrors are cracked.

No one actually cares
What she has said
Nor that she feels sad
And her fragile, glass built little neck
Where the empty little head is hanged;
And on the tiny flat back,
There it lies — the heavy, enormous sack.

The brain is dead,
The belly is fat,
The palm is fat,
But who cares about that.

Here it is, the walking dead,
Walking back to where commands are said.

Written on 8 November 2013, at work.
Typical Hong Kong working-environment — no matter how much you hate your work, you have to do it.

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Author: emmalhy

Poet | Modernist | Momentographer in search of lost time, and the little miraculous moments View all posts by emmalhy