The Welcoming Party (A Likely Story)

On boats they fled lands of
the walking dead,
but the zombies on our
side aren’t much skilled as greeters.

We’ve become bottom-feeders of
compassion,
forging symbiotic pacts with
rations a day the old

rhetoric provides.

But then, we’ve never had to
look artillery in
the eye,
expected to die defending it.

I, for one, have never
lived under
the gun, my
dissent not strung up by

its neck.

So we watch the fresh tides
wrestle and pry
blue away in favour
of blood,
I am stumped, for
this is not what

I thought
apocalypse to be.

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