Zombie!

 

 

Don’t make me to be the killer Lord,

Don’t make me the one spreading wildfire

Through the innocents,

Don’t make me the killer Lord.

 

Christmas lights and tinsel

Upon a tree with sudden death;

Shedding needles sharp upon

The carpet of a blood soaked floor

And it’s nothing more than murder;

Nothing more than torture.

 

Don’t make me the killer Lord.

 

The Angel sits atop,

Looking on within the boundaries

Of the ceiling,

Wishing hoping all to be

Erased from the horror

Of a memory,

And once he climbs –

Surpasses all betwixt

The brick and mortar,

He’ll never come back down

To Earth again.

 

Don’t make me the killer Lord -

     Don’t make me the killer.

 

Pantomime and plays,

Vigorous attempts to pass on blame

    Languishing – the infidels of hate -

And there’s just too many Christians,

Too many Muslims gone to war,

None within an Angels memory -

None for pacifying God.

 

Don’t make me the killer Lord!

 

This pestilence I pretend

Never touched my soul,

This plague I fear

Like waking in a dream

Upon infinity where I only

See my hands,

Warps my conscience

To a standstill,

Makes harrowing

Remarks upon my mind –

When there’s no grandiosity in killing.

 

Don’t make me this killer Lord.

 

Presence of those blood shot eyes,

Presents of demands –

The paper ripped by

Hands that never once

Wore blood,

Makes Christmas time

A lengthening of a sentence

And time a lonely ticket

To a fortune

Where bone and flesh

Are traded,

And as an individual;

I live to fear it now as if;

I am the walking dead.

 

Michael J Waite 27^th November 2012.