Hit after hit,
The wall beats my hand.
Yet I keep on swinging,
Unable to stop the motion.
I feel my hands slowly beak
But I continue to hack away.
The skin finally tears,
Letting my miasmic blood
Flow freely like a fountain.
My bones start to show,
And their frail fragments
Drop to the ground,
Much like pebbles of icy hail.

My arms are my remaining armament,
For my hands are far too twisted and bent.
A mire of my blood becomes the floor,
My vision fades and I see nevermore.