Doomscrolling the Past Time Lore
by Michael Doyle

It's a twisted blade to the knife 
That makes a struggle for our life
Into a battle to hold off death
Until the very last draw of breath

So much deception when truth becomes lies
While we look for the dreams behind the eyes
Of those that we somehow love without belief
Waiting for them to draw blood and find relief

The relief reached in their thirst for blood
As they and we drag ourselves through the mud
Scratch-by-scratch, somehow barely holding on 
Until death by death, we fear humanity is gone

Nobody knows how the zombie virus started
The search for this truth isn't for the faint-hearted
For myself, I believe in the whispered story
That it comes from some government laboratory 

Lies told, and deceptions heard strike every nerve
They told us fourteen days to flatten the curve
Of the top ten lies from the government, this makes the list
Instead, the disease spread hand over fist

Setting tribe against tribe, hoping to stay alive
We said our prayers and isolated ourselves to survive
As more and more turned, and we hoped for a cure
We could only hope the human race would endure

Bite by bite, we lost this human's race
With a handful of survivors relying on grace
Building walls of defense to start again
Families of choice not blood, became true friends

Never again accepting unproven authority
Never forgetting what they did to our dignity
This became legends bred from grandparent lore
A new mythology of the lived through and something more

Bullet-for-bullet, there was quite a cost
Between our tears, we remember the lost
This coming Halloween has postured to its meaning
Remembering with honor, those no longer human beings

But ghosts tainted as we are, as we pass through this fire
Giving our best when driven down to the wire
We did what we had to just to somehow stay alive
There is no shame in knowing that we'll survive

The ground we stand on is soaked in blood
What's left of our spirit is mired in mud
We must become and be a people of purposeful nobility
I say this at the blood-stained cost of my humility

I feel the guilt of surviving to live
I say this having given all that I have to give
Can I be among those who begin again?
I extend my hand to you as kindred and friend

(c) October 1, 2024   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved