The Walking Dead

Skeleton’s comb the Earth
Draped in ragged tissue
And old garments dragged
Across the earthen ground.

Their sockets stare forward
Unblinking with their motion
And cracked expressions
Or wretched depressions.

They hobble and fall
Caring nothing at all
Of Feelings unfelt
In their coldness breathed.

The bones of refuse
Or careless fellows
Walking the barren Earth
As dead skeletons and gore.

A march of cold corpses
Dripping sinew a bit
Scraping the ground
Their dead hearts pumping no more.