by Nick Gisburne
His carriage, heavy with forbidden musk,
Arouses old excesses, fresh delight.
A kiss will crush his victim’s lips at dusk.
Insatiable, he rides to meet the night.
No pleading can prevent what he must do.
The poison of his pleasure will not wait.
At sunset, if his shadow yearns for you,
Surrender, for the warning comes too late.
Despised by every nation, every flag,
The bastard never wearies of his crimes.
A predator, his fingers, daggers, drag
The sacrifice, the soul, as midnight chimes.
A spiteful dawn reveals the bride he bled:
A pet, a plaything, drained, discarded, dead.
