Poetry in Motion?

Perhaps not motion, exactly. Poetry with inertia?

Wyatt's poem today combined with Scarecrow's post (and a conversation with him) has inspired me to repost one of my older (if you count "earlier this year" as "older") poems here. This was originally posted on Pan Historia but now I'm sharing it with THE WORLD!

Hot Love in a Zombie World

Nailing the boards over the barn doors
Our hands touch briefly and we smile
The quick thrill reminding us we're alive
Not like those things outside
Who stagger and growl
Parts dropping off left and right
Rotting where they stand

Nailing boards over the windows
Our shoulders brush again and we smile
The smell of your sweat entrances me
Human pheromones
The zombies can't smell
As they lumber toward us
Groaning their incessant hunger

Stealing kisses as we crouch
Behind a makeshift barricade
The excitement building to a crescendo
As the undead beat on the barn door
Their nails and fingers breaking off
Their moans permeating the air
Barely drowning out our own

Making frantic love as the wood splinters
The inevitable conclusion of our human existence
The doors fly open as we cry out
Our declarations of lasting adoration echo on
Even in our own staggering pursuit of flesh
Our hands touch as we devour a doctor
Hot love in a zombie world