Miles to go

Poem featured is "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost" The rest of the writing is my own.

Whose woods are these I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

She fed him a broken bit of cookie from her dirty apron. The wastes were such a messy place. 

“Pogo dear, this merchant, he seems a bit messy, perhaps you can wash him up a bit with that fine soap of yours?”

"Hm, yes, that does seem prudent"

My little horse must think its queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year

The traveling salesman wasn’t moving much, sweet Pogo took his arm and the herbal scent of rosemary wafted up, she poured water from a canteen and the water washed over his skin, rust colored water washing over him as she scrubbed the small cuts.

“Maybe ask him again where he is?” Silk absentmindedly put some cookie into the merchant’s unconscious mouth.

He gives his harness bells a shake, 
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

A smile crossed the remnants face, so sweet, the little feather and furred girl had a sadistic streak a mile wide.  Without the tiniest bit of prompting she pushed him over and dug her hand into the open wound on his back, leaving him to choke on his chocolate chips, and leaned over him “where is he?” 

The merchants eyes flew open and he let out a stuttered scream, and tried to answer, maybe he would have said anything at that point, before his last crumb laden breath left him bleeding on the ground. 

“Oh well.” Silk shrugged and dusted herself off, standing up, helping Pogo off the ground. 

“Keep going?” Pogo smiled.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep

Writing Prompt: "Has that scar always been there?"

"Has that scar always been there?"

I had been humming quietly in the bath, and the voice startled me. I preferred to bathe alone, very few people saw me like this. I preferred my body painted and adorned, naked I was nothing but a broken doll.

I pretended not to hear. "Did you say something?"

"Yeah, those? She gestured to my arms, chest and back, have you always had those?"

Oh...yeah. Since I was a child.

"The story we told family is that one of the older bathhouses collapsed, a candle caught and burned, I was barely rescued in time."

She looked incredulous, "And the truth? scars like that look like a pretty severe....beating maybe?"

"We never spoke of it again."