Through wood and thicket headlong, filled with dread
You fly before me, from your lips a sigh
Of terror, peril comes from whence you fled,
My lethal passion you cannot defy.
The trap is sprung, before me now you swoon,
‘Midst fallen leaves cocooned in night’s cold mist,
Illumined prey beneath the pallid moon,
Your tender throat just begging to be kiss’d.
Nowhere to run, at last you’re mine – I spring,
Lured on by racing pulse beneath white skin,
Limbs writhe within my grip, before I wring
That slender neck, now let the feast begin!
The font runs dry, my passion slaked, grows cold.
My bloodless maid, so lovely to behold!
R. Christophe Ryber lives in Hardwick, VT where in addition to writing he runs a small business with his wife, homeschools his children, and studies literature at a local college.