Where there is no will

A zombie poem, from a new zombie's perspective.

Where there is no will

The moon looks up at me from an expanding pool of red.
Still, it doesn’t sink in that I’m the one who may be dead.
I can see, I can hear, these thoughts ring in my head
my stomach even grumbles. I want to be fed.
I’m not rising up to heaven, nor to hell by Satan-led,
I’m not sinking toward oblivion from this soaking, tarmac bed.

But my eyes don’t blink. My limbs bend the wrong way,
my thoughts don’t feel like mine. I know I’m under the sway
of a power darker than ink and it paints the black sky,
it builds the pain inside me but bars it from bubbling into a cry,
it tells me to eat now and not to question who or why
just to eat, and to be grateful
that there will be no low and no high
no will and no way
just day and night and day
and night and day and night and day.