Wound the wounded

Don't wound the wounded;
Whispers in the crowd.
Crawling through the middle
in the forsakens shroud.
While the devils dandy dogs
follow by my feet,
lapping up the vomit of defeat.

With tails military straight
and twisted tounges and smiles;
all goodness they defile.
Yet there was none to start with.
A heart as bleak as mine;
like the crest hill of a cemetry
vastness that roams for miles.

With ribs showing
through cracks of falling flesh,
skin flaking with every rotten breath.
They wait with eyes deathly keen
desperate for the emotion that eminates.
For what the master has seen.

Yet it will not come!
Weeds growing at my feet
to take me slowly tendrils creep.
For I cannot spew forth the vileness within;
yet how am I supposed to let it win?