Like a dust-encrusted gunman
The future haunts the desolate road ahead.
The sky is black with birds flying south.
Left behind, shivering, I dream of tropics.
We long for a zombie pandemic.
Only in such a future are plans concrete.
Only thing I’ve managed to prep for?
My punk attire: ass-less chaps and shoulder pads.
My brain has named such concerns taboo,
But my adrenal glands love to break the rules.
Stomach snarling like a starved possum;
Hollow eyes ringed, raccoon-like, by sleeplessness.
I feel like an old load-bearing wall
Infested with skittering, gnawing termites.
Do we even need adrenaline?
I’ll still be easy prey when the wolves make chase.
Swift suicide’s an escape plan,
But I’m a survivor, unfortunately.
The past gleams like a forgotten sun,
Dim and golden in the halls of memory.
When a child, the future was smaller,
Reaching only as far as the next sunrise.
The landscape is already barren.
People ask what I see, I tell them, “nothing.”