Incubus
Incubus
His icy fingers perform a slow staccato on my tense limbs
Enveloped by a deathly chill
Still I lye on the table in this lair
Strapped down
Locked in
Putrid and stale, breath deep
Inhaling my fear with desire
Hearing his feet dragging beside me
Can’t fight him
Won’t win
Of the capture I have no recollection
No fight left in me for how to escape
The monster has hunted victoriously
He has his prey
He will sin
Copyright © Lucy Harley | Year Posted 2018
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