Zombie

It walks among the dead,
a faded image to homeless men
on streets of maturity's decay,
to touch the sun
to feel the warmth
and tan it's need to self-oblige.

And on it's bones
that can be seen through broken glass,
the roots of dead trees are pulsating;
once again.

It can not fly,
incapable of painting the sky
colours that are disliked by general opinion;
it is aging, faster than history repeated
and memories are tearing down the railways of soulless heartbeats ...

that mask of an iron coffin
that mask of see-through affection;
that zombie here
is me.