Silent footsteps on the hill, getting closer as your spine does chill.

Gasping for air she wheezes along, always wheezing that same still song.

Her angled body is dressed in scraps, pieces of flesh all covered in gaps.

You'll wonder why she takes so long, you'll wonder and wonder but always be wrong.

Her eyes from afar seem to blaze horrid red, but from here you can't see her dread.

She's still over there; you're safe yet, but from seeing footsteps on the hill, there comes a hesitant sweat.

Buried in the mud, you'll see her face grow old, your legs don't work, and the air is cold.

She's not far now, your stale arms seem to yelp, your voice is dead and no one's here to help.

The hair on your arms are paralyzed, and you tell yourself that this is all lies.

But your mind shrieks for warmth, a place perhaps to die, but the fiery-eyed woman, is beside you, begging you not to cry.

As she takes from you your very skin, she wears it herself, and through your face does grin.