by Nick Gisburne
She falls in wretched anguish at his feet
Appalled, she begs to know what she has done
His eyes behold a feast, no more than meat
Too terrified to scream, too weak to run
And yet, there is a flavour to the flesh
That, as he lifts a claw to rip her throat
Reminds him that a bride, untainted, fresh
Completes the dream, the fate his father wrote
The predator, ten thousand cycles old
Is troubled by the future, dark, unseen
Is this the woman destiny foretold
Would rise above the rest, his match, his queen?
But no, her heart, unworthy of the test
Is ripped, still beating, bleeding, from her chest
