(04/14/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)
The walking dead aren't zombies, they're ghosts.
Messages, of your life, unlived. Undead. Un-anything.
Turn the corner and there sits a regret,
cross-legged in the hallway,
with mournful eyes,
and a little potted plant in her lap.
Close your eyes at night and the closet door
will swing open
so all the times you didn't say "I love you"
when you could've,
will tumble down from the shelves and land
on the the thin carpet.
The dark abyss at the end of the basement stairs
hosts the voices of all the December holiday calls
you never got around to making;
The good luck in all the red envelopes
you never got around to giving.
No matter where you go, your ghosts follow you;
Shooting will not save you.
You can't burn them, or drive fast enough,
to get away.