Ryan Mecum - Zombie Haiku: Good Poetry for Your...Brains

To whoever might find this, My name is Chris Lynch, and I'm pretty sure I'm dying. In fact, if you are reading this, I'm probably already dead. Not that anyone will be around to read this from what I've seen, I'd guess this is the end of everything. This is my poetry journal.

In it, I will attempt to capture the beauty I see in the world in the form of a poetic structure called haiku. With three simple lines composed of five syllables, then seven syllables, and another line of five syllables, I will attempt to capture the earthly beauty which can be so overwhelming that I sometimes feel like I'm going to burst open. Enjoy. I'm writing this from inside a locked bathroom at the airport. After the plague, about a hundred of us moved safely behind the fences of this airport. For the past couple months, we have been relatively safe here because the dead couldn't get past the fences.

Well, then they figured out how to get past the fences. A girl named Barbara and I locked ourselves into an airport magazine shop. We lived off candy bars. For a few weeks, and then let starvation run its course. Barbara died and turned into whatever the dead turn into, The bird flew away
with more than just my bread crumbs.
He took my sorrow. If the dawn should break
and take away this sunrise,
I hope I break, too.

My soul hovers up,
climbing from its stomach cave,
to give my heart tempt warmth. Which is why I had to attempt my suicide run for this bathroom. Somehow, people turn into these things when they die, or if one bites them. Long story short: I think I'm the only one left of our airport group, and it's not looking like I can hide out much longer. This journal that I'm writing in its former owner bit me. As I was trying to dodge my way through the crowd and into the safety of this bathroom, one of them grabbed me.

I punched him. He bit me. I was able to get away and kill the guy (or re-kill the guy?) by slamming the bathroom door on his head, a lot. Not pretty. During the slam-fest, his arm got caught on this side of the door and I severed it off. In his hand was this journal.

If she calls tonight,
my heart will score one more point.
And doubt, minus one. The woods are lovely.
They are dark and they are deep.
How I love the woods. Fifty years from now,
When I am slow, old and gray,
will she be there, too? Now I'm alone in a locked bathroom with a journal, a pen, and an arm of a dead man who came alive and died again. Is that murder? If so, lock me up. Ha Ha! I guess I'm already locked up, so case dismissed! Out there, clawing at the I can hear them door. Chris L.