“Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!”
Over moonlit graveyard there’s a moan from wind,
where trees are limbs with claws to scratch, to catch
your soul, to rip your ribcage open; eat your heart.
And there beside her mother’s grave a golden girl.
She’s pale as silver dressed in white, unmoving, waits
with arms as marble, in her eyes are emeralds.
Her lips are blue, her breath is cold. When suddenly
she tenses as from far away a crunch on gravel calls
from sneakers, footfalls, prey approaching, warm its blood.
She was once like him, not innocent, but warm,
and now she sneaks behind a tree and watch the pink
of flesh alive. She traces her tongue along the fangs,
she feels the venom pulsing in her veins. Her muscles
tenses as she pushes claws into the soil, it’s time to feed.
It’s time to spill a life, it’s time to bleed his innocence.
Linked to Rommy’s monster prompt at toads
May 25, 2017