Zombies on the promenade

Flowers on the abyss - 

a sore which hisses. 

Is it wind? Or fallen's screams? 

Maybe I'll go near the rim. 

Updrafts to sustain life's drafts. 

We interrogate ourselves about what stayed, what left. 

And I think it's gross 

the amount of our loss. 

Granitic is few steps from capsizing, 

spiraling down and analyzing. 

But body's constrained here - 

its ties will not disappear. 

Zombies on the promenade: 

we are living on the facade. 

Giuseppe Circiello