Reaching Out For Blood

There is a sudden hunger,
a mysterious craving.
An urge for spiked thunder,
a need of red for raving.

For there is no fear,
as it is for the weak, they say.
For someone so dear,
call it the demon, as you may.

Where hate is harvested,
by the sun of darkness.
that make the quiver for,
the arrows of murdering sharpness.

There’s the pain that dwells,
in the core of the hearts.
There manifests the reason,
for the war to start.

Then the killing begins,
to fill the glass that’s mine.
For sometimes it needs to be real,
the blood, not the wine.


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