Flesh* was the *delicacy
Upon dead lips it was warm,
Blood did taste like a wine of
Seventy
Four
Years
The younger years
Were drank to fast,
To tender from the bone,
They never lasted long,
Till the
Hunger,
Fever,
Starvation
Of the dead took hold,
Yearning for the warmth,
"bodies numb"
To digest, blood still pumping warm
There was less living to feast
Only the cold hunger,
Like packs we hunted,
Never in need of rest
Rotting on jagged bones
Minds,
Bodies,
Soulless
Hunger that needed, wanting
To be fulfilled
We feel
We feel the hunger
We feel the hunger of the flesh,
We are dead in the heart but warmth
Is our comfort,
Warmth of fresh flesh, blood
Coursing down our throats
I consumed a vintage
Forty
Five
Old
She taste bitter, but we drank our full
Till nothing left,
We hunger for warmth, we are the **dead.
Was really hungery when this came to ink..
