You wrote about zombies
and now you’re dead.
You always seemed so sincere in your work
so the irony might have been lost on you
even were you living.

I can’t imagine
what would kill you.
You seemed so vibrant
in your art
and you’re younger than me.
It’s a shame
but I guess it’s plain
that the voice you use
might not always express every single truth
that you contain.

My words do not represent all of me
and neither,
I suppose,
would zombies be all of you
any more than either of us,
really,
can be encapsulated in dreams.