It kneels by a bedside,
It kills without remorse,
and in a pool of moonlight, feasts upon a corpse.
Its coiled tongue scoops up blood into
Its open maw,
Tendons slide off the bone,
Its talons rip and claw.
Once the carcass is plucked clean,
It bundles up the rest,
and creeps up the hidden
ladder to Its attic nest.
Old School Italian
Born to Write
"We make bitter better."
Irish History, Culture, Heritage, Language, Mythology
spare the crazy vocabulary, speak from your heart
Poetry, Prose, Photography
by Lize Bard
Natalie. Writer. Photographer. Etc.
Exploring land recently released by ice (geologically speaking)