A Being
A being of supernatural powers,
seeks out of the shadows,
seeing souls to devour in this hour.
He smells of rotting flesh, teeth so yellow,
claws of a huge dog,
a victim he will soon devour.
He is immortal his soul is not to be found,
an orge of no color, race or breed,
perhaps just an imaginary fean.
Picking his victims out of his teeth,
blood dried in his hair,
he doesn't care,
for tonight he will have his feast.
Don't cry out his name,
or he will pick your brain,
as the wind whispers orge, orge, orge...
By starstruck13
© 2009 starstruck13
(All rights reserved)
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