hold
my hands
how cold they are to touch
blood no longer circulates the heat
mottled skin
gray and purple bruising
silent screams part from my dead blue lips
teeth once white
contaminated mess
infected bite, you're the next zombie
how cold they are to touch
blood no longer circulates the heat
mottled skin
gray and purple bruising
silent screams part from my dead blue lips
teeth once white
contaminated mess
infected bite, you're the next zombie
Fibonacci
Poem
Where's
My Asylum
Copyright
© 2014 by Patrick B Vince
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