Would you believe me if I said that the heart of the undead still beats?
Slow, steady and still.
But it never to beat with anxiety.
Never to beat with melancholy.
Never to beat with delight .
But it just beats....
How about his other senses?
He was tired.
He never want to use it again
It will break.
His trust can never be rebuild
Only his heart that beats exist
Slow, steady and still.
And when the machete of death pierce through his beating heart
His heart still continues to beat.
He will succumb to darkness—
And when a light try to warm up the cold guarding walls
The undead, would his heart beat but with warmth again?
A/n: My story the heart of the undead still beats was supposed to be just a poem. But I decided to try and make it a story. This is a poem that will be included in the plot. It was my first story btw. And I'm not fluent in english, I apologize for my cliche plot and grammatical error.