The Fearful: New Age Zombies Poem by Richard Weissman

And he shuddered, and vomited, and wept in his hand,
As he stared on bewildered and innocence died.
And the miles of corpses strewn twisted in dirt,
And the hollow-eyed phantoms, in their morgued shirts,
And the barbed-wired, steel coldness, imprisoned their veins,
As they masked on indifferent, without tears, without names,
And their green tatooed numbers, now all that remains,
As they whisper the legacy of Poland's dark plains,
Be it Dachau or Auschwitz, Bergen-Belson or My Lai,
He wretched in his horror, wished only to die,
For in those bleak snapshots - utter blackness, utter truth,
Our dark shadows unraveled - death of innocence, death of youth,
Yet, in his woeful wailings, though man's legacy he despised,
He embraced his life's wellness, sought meaning in truth's eyes,
And vowed to play his pathetic tired part,
To teach of our nature, embrace it through art,
To know of our shadow, envelope dark fate,
And thus end the blackness, by owning our hate.
And he preached in grey cities, summoning naked truths from afar,
Proclaiming dark gospel, of what we needn't be and yet are,
But the Fearful wore eyeshades and painted their faces,
With simian smiles and dopey love glances,
And they called it New Aging,
And they "Aum-ed" him 'til red,
And in seeds of their actions,
His face turned ghost white,
Their fearful dark blinders,
Extinguished his light,
And in seeds of their actions,
New Hitlers do rise,
As the Fearful smile meekly and think themselves wise.
And they called it New Aging,
And they "Aum-ed" him 'til red,
And he cried out in his anguish,
"The living God is now dead."

-Excerpted from "Voices of the Dark" (1991)