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.
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