The Path

I walk across the defiled graves, As the undead pull me from all sides. Neither living, nor dead, They dare not tread the paths I tread, They merely mock my choice with their muffled screeches. Their stench forces me to turn away, As I turn to look into the eyes Of the most beautiful sun that burns my eyes for my sins, And calmly listens to my screams, Quite scientifically and most patiently. I dare not ask for help in such medieval times, For let the world know that I am not weak, And even if I ask for aid, who shall come? None shall come; none shall come to the aid of misfits like me. Hunted by undead that were never alive, Left to mourn by the living now dead, What is this graveyard I walk in between the lands of life and death? I walk alone, for sunlight shall never accept me in the lands it shines.