21st Century Emotional Palette, Part II: Anxiety in a Pre-apocalyptic Present

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.”

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