by Nick Gisburne
I feel it swell, a shiver of the skin
The rapture of the bleeding thrills my soul
A blissful tide of wonder washes in
But drains into a ragged, empty hole
His coat is drab and sterile, unadorned
A creamy sickness lingers on his lips
As agony returns, my screams are scorned
His sole concern, the canister he grips
The harvest feeds the witches and their kin
For him, their bitter milk, a taste he craves
Beneath the city, buried deep within
A thousand of us, bleeding, starving, slaves
Cold cages line the walls, beyond my sight
The bleeding lingers long into the night
