Mercy Mercy Mercy
She was bitten
Mercy Mercy Mercy
She was loved.
I saw the scar on her right shin
It was pink
And as ugly as the walls themselves.
She tells me I can touch it
And I refuse
But she guides my fingers towards the flesh
And I feel the tendons stiffen.
"How long?"
I ask.
"Four months.
They think
I have
The cure."
YOU ARE READING
The Wandering Woods
PoetryHere in the wandering woods, you have no self. It's you and the trees Swaying to a melody playing in the wind. Here in The Wandering Words, you have no hope. It's just you and the UNDEAD Limping along an unknown path - Found in a diary on the...
