This poem was inspired, again, by World War Two. The story was of a doctor who helped run a Jewish orphanage. He was offered a way out of the war but he stayed with the children. Eventually German soldiers arrived and forced the doctor and the children to walk miles to the nearest concentration camp. While they walked, the doctor held the hands of one or two of the children. Here’s the result of my “inspiration”. (By the way, the sand refers to a sand timer and the smoke obviously to the burning of clothes and bodies by the Nazis and the persona is obviously one of the children holding the doctor’s hand, whispering his fears and ending up consoling the poor doctor).
The Walking Dead
We are the walking dead, aren’t we mister,
The walking dead, me and my little sister,
We’re marching to our death aren’t we sir,
Please, my little sister, can’t you help her,
Mister, you aren’t crying are you,
Come on now, it’s nothing new,
Just keep on holding my blistered hand,
It’s almost gone, all that sand,
Mister, I can be the walking dead,
‘Cause I know that He’s not just in my head,
You see the smoke of Satan’s cigar,
We are the walking dead, we are.