Hunger Is A Driver

A girl should care of fright.

I talk her through the macabre.

I haunt the dunes and the park.

The exotica fool romantic.

I am this Bedlamite.

 

She shriek like insides on fire.

Semblance of gentile she survivor.

Love is dead by its hand

it come to be so.

 

Death of the Duchess.

You like the pose.

Fire and couture.

She have me her advantage.

 

Dyed in the wool

rainy day poet meant for you muse.

Event of romantic import.

Every belle in the cohort fellow zealot.

She amenable lass with

machination of fair game.

She turn to it for I know she take

initiative to vice

like you haven’t threshold for me.

 

Alright then.

She with the sweet water rose of war

for the wicked made constant.

Loyal whole cloth.

The pang like promised us.

I’m coming back.

 

Same as horror cover the square.

The burning leaves sweet smell of welcome.

Big news that reach coven.

Imagine the town back when 

and legend Bedlamite.

Nightmare spread 

a girl should care of fright.

Proof of my love she is warming to.

Caught in the swaddle I remember everything.

I’m aggressive, blessed manna

intoxicant monument of a sight.

Sense her virtue under threat.

Should I, would she tell? ©