The Walking Dead

The evening grew long as a chill settled in for the night.

My dogs and I ventured out for one last walk as dusk wrapped its

velvet arms around us.

I breathed deep

inhaling the spicy pines

and decaying leaves underfoot.

A hungry wind devoured what leaves were left clinging

helplessly to the trees.

I could hear voices echoing down the years

and whistling softly through naked branches.

The spoke of lives spent

from the ravages of time;

from loss, fear, self-doubt and loathing.

When death claims life it is final;

the pain is gone, the story done.

But for the living who know no comfort from their own loss,

who drown in their own pity

and live only in their memories

death does not come for them.

They are the walking dead

and are as real as the wind

picking his teeth with the tree branches.

They are shadows that cry in the night,

a hunger that can never be satisfied.

My dogs sniff the air as if anticipating

the arrival of some unforeseen entity.

The moon is full and heavy as though in its ninth month.

It hangs behind my house waiting for us to return.

So we do

and I close the door on the shadow world-

its hollow secrets-

and the walking dead.