She Fed Her Impoverished Soul

She fed her impoverished soul
on the hearts of others
feed, yes she must feed
blood dripping from death’s lips
she feeds and all is well
All hail the Queen
who owns the banquet
sad tales pinned upon her breast
bow down and wipe thy lips
upon thy rotted gown
yes, feed some more
and the banquet hall
fills with cheers and guile
fetid breath pours from swollen bowel
and they writhe in the stench of it
some day they will see the truths,
but it will be much too late
and when they become her next meal
there will be no audience.

© Sumyanna 2015

* Image found on Morguefile (courtesy of jdurham)

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