Curse the Muse
The smell of blood
awakens me
from my slumber.
I find myself in the center of a room,
walls splattered with blood
and chunks of what looks
like flesh,
here an arm,
there a leg,
an ear.
Memory hits me
like a fist to the face.
Sitting in a tree,
I wait,
seems like hours on end.
Then I pick up the scent,
taste it in my mouth.
I see a form approaching the spot,
I drop
feeling weightless for mere seconds.
As I make contact
time stops,
my claws shred the flesh
of her back like tissue paper,
blood matting my hair,
coating my skin.
Slish, slash
slicing hamstrings
and calves,
can't let my prey get away.
I stand there,
tasting the fear this soul reeks of,
letting it roll in my mouth
like a fine wine.
My presence engulfs her,
smacking her to the true reality,
game over.
I take a bite from her side
to satiate myself,
this one will take hours.
I grab her by the ankle
and drag the carcass,
taking it (her) inside.
Leaving her in the center of the room
I circle,
enjoying as the blood pools
watching,
waiting,
giving false hope,
waiting for the mind
to think there's a chance.
When she starts to stir
I crawl in,
ripping into her thigh.
The screams are the sweet melody
to my play.
Feeling the blood
run down my chest
I go into a frenzy,
tearing flesh with abandion,
throwing about
as much as I devour.
I gorge myself
into a deleriated state,
passing out within my artwork.
As I digest my prey
my mind replays the memory,
making my body quiver.
Copyright © Mark Matthews | Year Posted 2007
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