by Nick Gisburne
It shimmers at the boundaries of sight,
A summoning, a strange, uncertain shape.
A cold, immortal mistress of the night
Releases it, indulging its escape.
No trance can tame the vicious soul inside.
It hungers for the touch, the taste, of death,
An appetite too dark to be denied,
A shadow, silent, swift to steal a breath.
It slices through a city locked in sleep,
Dividing into slivers of decay,
But spares the worst, for in its claws will keep
The pure, the perfect, smothered, snatched away.
Consuming tiny people, tiny minds,
The summoning defiles the flesh it finds.
