by Nick Gisburne
Euphoric as I suckle at the soul,
Corrupted by the struggle, fed by fear,
I strive to save some semblance of control
Before the body’s breath can disappear.
While others lure the living to their fate,
My appetites are not so quickly quenched.
A spirit, stolen early, or too late,
Will shatter if inelegantly wrenched.
The boy, so passive, eager to submit,
Too late awakens flavours of regret.
By seven of his brothers I am split,
But I will not be butchered by them, yet.
They understand their lunacy, too late.
Tonight I find a feast to fill my plate.
