His willingness to stalk and kill on nights
Both wild and long, while true temptation grows
Within the soul, even in those it bites;
The wraith, embracing all arousing lows,
Deals death, induced through fetid haunting love—
Well, lust, but not according to the tales
Of shininess and pedophiles for blood—
And makes your daughters thirst for undead males
Whose evil comes to all who let it in,
And soils the soul throughout the shards of time.
A torture when that means eternal sin,
Her morals lost with every tick and chime.
A bite, a stab, a kill. His lust for blood;
A soulless act without kindness or love.
~Lorna Marie Larson
No comments:
Post a Comment