by Nick Gisburne
Ten thousand souls won’t satiate the freak,
The coldest, most malicious of them all.
As dusk descends, she suffocates the weak.
Capricious, quick, she bleeds them. Dry, they fall.
Her fury, in a flash of human fears,
Can bring a city, screaming, to its knees.
Remember, in your pale, pathetic tears,
She gathers up a storm; you felt the breeze.
For nourishment, for perfect pleasure, both,
She does not hide her base, barbaric lust.
Astonished by the vigour of her growth,
You cower. Watch her grimace with disgust.
A threat before the moment she was born,
She feeds to breed, to spray and spread her spawn.
