 |
| Dragging herself through dirt and dead leaves. |
Crawlin'
The Plight of Man
This atavistic rift in my nature
Creeps and punches without warning
And renders one more beast than man
Lycanthrope, prowling the secluded woodlands
The faint scent of blood
Receipted by nostrils flared
The taste of flesh
Upon this salivating tongue
Somewhere, a handmaiden cries out in pain
Waking to stained hands
And a belly full of rocks
Death Knell
The tolling of bells
Sounding out across this deserted town
Standing frozen in the middle of the dust-swept street
A hunched shadow moves silent across a rooftop
A lonesome crow croaks out a drawn-out syllable
Before taking to the overcast skies
I can hear them approaching from the north side
A blood-thirsty horde
Intent on devouring my insides
For the florid blood that flows in these veins
But who is the real monster?
The end is not nigh
It is here
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