The zombie looks like a man, walks like a man, eats and otherwise functions fully, yet is devoid of the spark. It represents the nagging doubt that lays deep in the heart of even the most zealous believer: Our true fear of the zombie was never that its bite would turn us into one of them. Our fear is that we are already zombies.
Cry no tears for us, my friend. I pry at her fingers, panicking to be released in fear that she may drag me into death with her. She croaks again, Lend no aches to the dreams of yesterday. From the corpse of Warren, his greyish gums smack from whatever goo has settled in his mouth, Allow the tide sweep free the bay. Then together they sing in zombie choir, And home the ships sailing send.