Scars
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All winter is white and simple,
All winter is plain and broad,
But there amongst the snow a dimple,
Of which a body in the sewers flowed.

The body screamed in terror,
Though there was no head,
The blood plastered to its skin,
As it soaked in its watery bed.

Its hands were wide as if scratching,
There were scars on its flesh,
Scars carved in its belly,
And an inscription that read 'Thresh'.

Obviously it was a work of art,
That the snow and waters deeply admired,
And with its faceless expression slit,
That the artists had conspired.


No one could tell the difference,
Of sadness, of envy, of madness,
But alone as the body drifted,
Its bullied skin drenched in sadness.

Its belly was carved in aggression,
Mixed with a malevolent satisfaction.
And all the heavens watched,
At this tainted course of action.

So it fell into the oblivion,
With no hope without a face,
But something lived on inside,
That told this wasn't its resting place.

Hell washed the corpse ashore,
The shore took in the corpse,
And while the night was running away,
The wind pierced and stung like forks.

The body lay motionless,
The body sought out friends,
And when the sun would shine again,
It'd call for its revenge.