by Nick Gisburne
A thrill, a thought: the blood these young ones yield;
How soothing to extract if from their skins.
A surge of expectation, stark, unsealed,
Precedes the feast. She beckons. It begins.
Accountants mark the ledger’s page of pain,
As five are quickly stricken from the book.
Destroyed by truth, by terror, each, insane,
Submits to evil, frozen by a look.
She wonders if, in weakness, they enjoy
The flow, the flood, as flesh releases life.
No injury, no age, will now destroy
These bodies, stripped and served to Satan’s wife.
Voracious, still she hungers, as before.
She bids them build a banquet. Martyrs. More.
