(I believe this is some sort of bastardized ghazal, at least in that every stanza ends with the same word.)
Dreams caked in dust and dead gossamer wings,
cork floors, and oak doors, and still awesomer things
remind me of walls that stand tall in my past–
built to outlast the vast majority of things.
I’ll remember it well, when the hordes of undead,
those not dreamt in my bed, but instead, the real things,
come zombying round. And I’ll get out of town,
and I will not go down to the flesh-eating things.
And some say it’s silly to sit down and make plans,
but they don’t understand; in the grand scheme of things
there’s just comfort in knowing where exactly I’m going.
Preparedness, man– it’s just one of those things.