(or “If Edgar was an anarchist”)
The world, a haunted demon nest,
their fleshen coils drooped chest to chest.
All else is gone, themselves consume,
with men, their blood, a death contest.
A tangled mess, the bloodied loom
that webbed from priests and kingly tomb.
Just few of men do see the game
where lives of men are pumped in gloom.
The fools igniting stately flame
are now consumed in writhing blame.
For having started devil’s light,
they bear mankind as slaves to shame.
Soft suckling sounds of men in flight
from host to host – horrific sight.
A wizened soul with cutting might
bring demons’ bleeding, night to night.
It’s open link night over at dVerse Poets. Feel free to come by and sit a spell, or see what others have posted.