The wind mills release a sound,
beating the words of acid rain.
Paper thin zombies amble by
and communicate their dead zone
by touch and abracadabras
upon the hood and car doors.
We had gone into a quiet Nowhere Place
to escape the end of the world.
There were pool tables
and foosball tables
and swimming pools
and cages that swung from the ceilings
with paper streamers.
Just a small lot of us.
Now we emerge
and follow a man with an arm tatoo
of three old tall ships.
He walks us by the zombies.
The zombies cannot see us
until we are clear of them.
We get into a dented car
and the windmills rake the sky
as we drive to escape the sound
of the acid rain pelting its way
through the roof of the car.
There is no hope for us in this dream,
So we wake up and drink coffee.