FOOD

Things with wings of lace and dream
hover 'round my head
bringing visions that would seem
to fill my soul with dread

I walk a shadowed, twisted street
and vaguely wonder why
as sunlight wanes and eerie darkness
swallows up the sky

Clutching tightly to my hand
a small, misshapen child
croaks words I cannot understand
in a voice both soft and wild

her words become an urgent cry
for somehing I must give
somethng that will bleed and die
so she may eat and live

My eyes grow wide with mortal fear
as they begin to see
more shapes like her that gather here
in close proximity

They grasp and claw and tear and bite
and now I understand
I am the food they seek this night
these children of the Damned

C.  Lon  R.  Bruso