The pop of a head when the axe hits it squared,
the sight of it's nostrils as they become flared...
The scent of its carcass as it starts to decay,
turning gray and matted as time rotts it away ....
See's no movement, yet movement i see,
the maggots are feasting and consuming thee...
Black feathers flying,while vultures peck the bone,
tearing you to pieces until your eventually gone....
the wind begins to howl and the sky turns to gray,
blowing her raven black hair about her face away ...
lurking for shadows to slip in and about ...
waiting to catch a morsel running around.
peering from the dark,tongue tracing her lips
from one corner to the next she quietly slips...
awaiting to have you within her tight grip,
to taste of your crimson shes awaits to indulge in a sip.
as written: Twist'a Fate