Does it drip down your throat, thick and black?
We miss the crimson warmth, the coppery tang.
We the shadows that block out the moon,
a banshee’s wail on the wind
Is it the stench of decay rotting your flesh?
We lurk upon the threshold, in fragments.
Craving the living, forever rabid
Does it consume you, ravenously?
These gums have split, to reveal our fangs.
They’d drain a corpse dry, still demanding more.
We have died a thousand deaths and come back, unnatural.
Whose blood do you thirst for?
The wretched,
the weak,
the innocent,
the cursed.
The damned.
Can you hear the symphony of suffering?
The gasping, the choking, the begging for mercy.
We are the buried, the forgotten, the restless dead.
And next we are dragging you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The first time I went hunting, I watched as my misplaced shot paralyzed the deer. I think about this often, but never when eating venison.