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Most unsuspect this form of ‘pocalypse.
Perhaps we blinded ourselves
to idiot indicator lights
in this vehicle of earth through space.

The engines rumble,
backfiring,
a sooted rain of ash
and coffinless ones afloat
down clogged fuelways.

The wipers failed us long ago,
our visibility narrowed
to a decade, maybe less.
And still we barrel on,
and still we barrel on
to the fork in the road ahead.

And the zombies slowly arise,
their green fingers massaging birth.
They lost the memo and are cutting in line.
Or perhaps, are these the spring crop
of daffodils,
three months early,
confused by robin song?

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