Not a poem
I hurt;
like a Frankenstein monster.
Iron fist
Unrelenting
Squeezing my heart
The campaign has begun
the villagers gather as I speak
it's only a matter of moments now
they are coming
nowhere to run or hide
heart pounding
panic
taste of blood and rust in my throat
i must make my peace
certainly not with them
it is too late for that
but with my maker
the Frankenstein monster cries;
"Who are you that has made me thus ?"
to the villagers
I am but but rags and bone;
without heart or soul.
it's easier that way,
for what must be done.
no way out
they are here
they are closing in
it is done
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