A tale unsung

Days go by, too soon
Too soon to even blink,
Too soon to even think.
But god forbade, the wrath is calm
The wrath is calm,
Too calm to let me breath,
Let me breath in this mist of rot.
Too calm to let me look ,
Let me look, perch in the woods.
The woods of red scars,
Like the fresh wounds of a hound,
A hound set out of bars.
I see eyes, and a lot of them,
I see anger and a lot of it.
I look at them, they stare me back,
Eyes with mercy in heart,
but too cold to forgive.
Like the grudge of a trot,
Locked at the bay, but not for long.
Is this the end, the end of the run?
Or the beginning of a tale,
left for the mob, yet to stun?

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