Like the mutant I have healed.
The memories exist, but the pain is gone.
I know where the wound was, I know how it felt
But the scar and feeling had left for good.
The fire dies, and I rise from the ash
New flesh healing over the metal and bone.
Though I have healed and the pain has fled
Instinct doesn't permit me near what's dealt the injuries.
So I move on, my face swept blank
The scar on my chest healing as if it never happened.
Just because the wounds close, doesn't mean I'll forget
But now at last, there is nothing left.
♠ ♠ ♠
This will be my last piece I'll post, most likely. I'm most likely going to drop off the face of Mibba for good. This account will remain as a memorial (and proof that I actually wrote these poems, should I become the next Edgar Allan Poe), but I'm done here.

Goodbye, all.