The Living Dead

When your bit… your bit.
You can scream and cuss and shake your fists
You can curse your gods till the end of it.

It’s a timeless question like the Earth is old.
The answer to we may never know.

Bacteria? Virus? Maybe a mold?

Like an avalanche it starts real slow; it’s an ache, a pain, or could be a cold?

But when your bit… your bit…
And that’s the end of it.

Your flesh grows pallid and your chills grow deep.
At the end of days you’ll wish for the endless sleep.

Then the aches get worse and your fever burns.
But deep in your stomach you start to yearn.

Your friends grow weary then flee with haste.
Through bloodshot eyes you ponder their taste.

Because when your bit… your bit…
But that’s not the end of it.

Your eyes roll back, blood pressure drops.
Your heart rates flat but your feet won’t stop!

Raise up your arms and arch your back.
You shamble on at the head of the pack.

Bite through flesh as victims scream.
Tastes like heaven in this bloody dream.

Now the lessons learned but it’s too late.
Infection spreads and binds your fate.

But you have a choice if you so choose
One shot to the head?
Or the living dead?