By Krish Sharma
A man, dead but alive,
Sobbing in his skin.
Came a reaper's hand,
Grabbed him by the chin.
Ghosts of the past,
They shriek her cursed name.
Evil grin for the watchers,
Slaughterhouse was known her game.
Laid open on those webs,
They stink of blood and bones.
Multiple faces she tends to wear,
All working as her clones.
Out comes the intestine,
The man flickering with his tears.
Cannot be satisfied the witch,
For she needs to feed on fears.
Her lust for his pain,
Blowing off the scented candles,
Carnage in her arms,
Like a baby and its dandles.
Starting to lose breath, the prey.
But the devil wants him alive.
Liquor being poured on wounds,
Eternity of torture within her hive.
Loss of all senses,
Barely a man remained the man.
Her lips tired of the same blood,
Bonks over a clean pan.
Begins a hunt for another,
Her life depending on the damned.
Half eaten meal tossed into the void,
For her storage was all crammed.
By Krish Sharma
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