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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The Whispers

While walking on the streets,
She hears utter silence,
There’s rampaging in front of her,
But feels no violence,
She hears someone calling out,
But no one reaches out,
The Whispers compel her,
They want her to shout.

She sense something terrible,
A feeling of death,
Like some soul is giving up,
Giving the last breath,
It’s someone who is all fine,
Someone in all its health,
The Whispers tell her not to,
Keep it as a stealth.

She knows that it is a murder,
That someone is going to die,
A person is going to fall asleep,
On the deathbed it will lie,
She tells it to everyone, but
All they do is deny,
The Whispers let her hear,
The dying’s last sigh.

She now knows the soul is gone,
Leaving behind a dream,
The body is there lying on the ground,
While she hears the scream,
She has to live like that now,
Following the ancient regime,
The Whispers gave her a drop,
Now will come the stream.

She is the centre of the deadpool,
The informer of the sea,
One who knows the brutality,
But wants to seek mercy,
One who talks to the dead,
whom the living can’t see,
The Whispers let her know,
that she is a Banshee.