, , ,

Another glass I fill
to clean the groove
of last night’s kill
immortality I disprove
unrivaled is my skill

It’s not so fun, anymore
timeless, I thought the thrill
child’s play now, just a bore
endless is the blood I spill
honestly, it’s just a chore

With moonlight, the streets do fill
only then will my blade move
hanging now by the windowsill
owed to slay, it does behoove
my mind races, never still

Like sand in the wind, quiet I drift
I see the signal from my shill
like a switch, my pace must shift
another lamb I kill
my blade enthralled by this gift

In my den, curtains drawn
another glass I fill
through the cracks I see the dawn
down my throat my feast does spill

Yet I cannot help but yawn
at the thought of last night’s kill
I’d get more joy from a fawn
never tested, is my skill