I remember a time before the apocalypse hit,
when zombies were still a novelty,
when video games didn’t try to make the undead fit
into every single scenario that you could see.
Each mouse click takes you deeper
into a survival horror nightmare showcase,
schools, jobs, worlds filled with creepers
shuffling with intent toward an audience of bored faces.
Every last one of us, with illuminated countenances in the dark,
remain in a cynical daze, because it’s all so uninspired –
there seems to be nothing that can provide that spark
to light up our minds, to reignite a dying fire.
If only the end that has come was about games,
and not the gamers, the uncritical critics
scrambling to open up wallets with no shame,
swallowing what’s given to us like paralytics.
We are the masses with dead hearts,
shambling toward every next festival, dead eyes peeking
from the shadows, heavily medicated so we fit the part;
we devour propaganda like the food we’re seeking,
cause there’s no more brains left in our midst –
just our perpetual motion toward our eventual ends,
every step chronicled on our social media lists,
every breath punctuated by well-trained fingers clicking “send!”
We are the masses with dead ambitions,
rambling about our so original futures, well-worn paths
walked by Frost-bitten feet toward letters of admission,
confirming that, “yes, you can do the math!
You’re headed for six-figures – no need to worry about
your own body stricken with rigor mortis,
all that matters is your financial clout!” –
that’s how they court us.
We are the masses facing dead ends,
mapping out five-year plans that look the same
as our last, but with a little more save than spend –
but really, who’s to blame?
The corporations make the shiny new things we want,
and expectations make us buy, buy, buy –
so it’s everyone else’s faults that our faces are ghoulish and gaunt,
even if it is us who bare our souls and wave bye, bye, bye.
the evil that has taken residence within us
did not come from some virus or something external,
even if it’s so widespread, it’s practically viral, it was
from within that this disease started, as recorded in Adam’s fitness journal:
“take one forbidden fruit –
it’s okay if there’s already a bite missing –
and mix it with one cup of pride (that’s at the root
of your agreement with what the snake’s hissing);
sprinkle on a generous helping of doubt
(comes free with that pride, no lie!) –
in fact, forget the fruit; you can do without,
cause if you have pride and doubt, you’ve probably already opened your eyes.”
If we take a look now at the pictures of our progress,
we’ll see the same thing – the internal rot that underlines
all of these selfies like a hashtag mess,
the skeleton wearing a life costume, insisting “everything’s fine!”
it’s something within us that created the walking dead,
these self-consumed monstrosities swallowing up reflections,
but it was divine intervention, Someone outside our own heads
that showed up, calling us in compassionate election.
See, once we’re dead, it’s over – we’re gone! –
even with one foot in the grave, there’s a million feet of dirt above,
and that means there’s no digging ourselves out; but this night has a dawn.
We can’t save ourselves, but we’ve already been saved by love;
saved by grace, cause there was no need, no logical reason
to forgive our treason, to hear our pleas to revisit the case.
The evidence was there, plain to see that we inherited the curse,
no hope, no prayer, no reason to care as we were taken away by the hearse,
but He broke us free, pulled us out of death’s snare,
spared us the wrath, taking the time, the punishment for our crimes.
We can’t save ourselves, but He has done it,
and this great darkness was illuminated, the fire lit,
our souls exonerated – the cure for our undead disease
is here, found with the greatest of ease –
His name is Jesus,
the great Saviour, death’s Slayer,
raiser of the dead by virtue of the life He bled;
the only way to be saved is to take the offer He gave:
your life for His –
now will you rise up out of the grave?