The taste of pennies in your mouth
not as exciting as expected, but still
satisfies. Your attention to detail
in your attempts to incite riots
in the streets were admirable
but still a failure. No matter, nothing
a quick trip into clandestine direct
action wouldn't fix. And thus you
find yourself here, last person
upright at the end of this iteration
of the zombie uprising. Gasoline
and saltpeter in your nostrils,
tongue for once redder than your
lips. Your witchery saved
for a battle to be named later.
The slopes of Mt. Runar rise
before you; the blood gives you
sustenance to climb.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com)
and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pulsar, Tessellate, and Scarlet Leaf
Review, among others.