by Nick Gisburne
A shadow in the ruins, wet, she waits,
Disgusted as the nomads gnaw their meat.
Concealed behind the broken border gates,
She prays her scent will not reveal her seat.
No veterans, no bounty hunting scum,
But handy with a weapon nonetheless,
These traders, hauling junk from slum to slum,
Would kill her cold, in seconds, with finesse.
The foulest of the foursome, fat and fed,
Declares his wish to desecrate her land.
He squats behind a fallen statue’s head,
But feels her cold, her claws, and cannot stand.
She drags him to the marshes, through the weeds,
To flay his flesh, euphoric as she feeds.
