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.
Iron Hitting Stone:
Raising our children is how we survive.
The years of mud have concealed rotting death
more wholly than human efforts attempts.
My desire, my daughter, tucked behind
and now mine in her safety. You must leave.
We’ll fix the fences, we’ll defend after,
but there is no time for mercy when blood
is raging so fast it reopens wounds.
My charging compulsion will not falter;
I parent one step removed from my own
as I lead one step removed from my past.
Life’s collapse utterly transformed the world
yet it still takes a new generation
for the pieces to switch their positions.
And mine was born out of this spit and blood
that I cried out of sincere survival.
The slaughter of our domesticity
forced me to recognize dispassionate
tolerance as our fate; that I can’t hide
behind fences and stab away at death.
I saw Hershel smile before dying.
Both he and I understood survival
requires moving slower than the dead.