Your Death
I am your death,
This cold breath
upon your neck,
Lips that peck
flesh from bone
in a place, alone,
And blood runs
as setting suns
knife the sky,
For you, to die,
You are mine
Night, to dine,
Hail the feast,
Feed the Beast!
© Michael Garrad December 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment