Culture won’t collapse from a lack of artists, but from a lack of audience. Let’s give our modern mythology the thought it deserves. I’m going to write a poem in reaction to every episode of The Walking Dead for the rest of Season 4. Enjoy, and if you feel differently about how I portray the characters then feel free to respond.
A poem for Brian Heriot:
When no one was there to give him a title he stole one from the dead.
And the fallen king crawled out from a ditch
now unfit to rule,
but the faultless survivors pressed and pushed
him until he snapped,
but not in bloody violent release.
Instead, he snapped back
into place. Empty beings have no words
and the king is filled
with ego powered by united praise.
He regressed into
a modest throne where he now yearns further
and hurtles forward with newfound control.
But he tried to leave,
in a mute lapse of sincere selfishness.
The kindest action of any tyrant
is to disappear
even if he leaves behind disorder,
yet you can’t afford
chaos in the apocalypse, so hail
him now as your king.
This is a retelling of his rise to power,
who knows how often it’s been told.