Silent shadows that paint vague images,
Play their ever so preverse games,
The fog holds in place and rests silently,
Just within the trees,
An old and rustic duster,
Waiting to be used,
The cycle is never ending,
And knowing this she silently prowls,
Looking and hoping to find her next victim,
Driven by the sexual desire,
And lust for warm blood...
As long as she can have her blood lust full filled,
So she can have a requiem,
None for the burning pain in her head and stomach,
Pain that won't go away,
Because she is forever damned,
And will never know peace
just a blood lust