The Second Deadly Sin
Slaking this thirst needs only a little
more than simply the blood-right for first kill.
The rest your faintly beating heart keeps fresh.
Afterwards, I bear you into the earth's
gutted underbelly with the others,
waterskin vessels of arterial springs.
Pale stalactites, you hang like pendulous
bats from the cavern ceiling, terrified
as a keening rends the shivering air:
The call to feed. From the shadows, my fanged
brood circles in, a famished legion that
will tattoo your flesh with a ravenous
Stigmata of blood, again, again, again -
miming your open mouth that cannot scream.