Frigid in false position,
The felines fate is to stare.
The puppeteer scoops brain and tweaks muscle,
perfecting the lifestyle of once frugal.
Black tar swirls around the predator's jaws,
writhing in anger and lust.
Grey fangs glean towards the non-existent prey,
removed from the twitching iris of the once nimble beast.
Red angry tears pattern along the frozen muscle,
Layered by bristled, chemical dipped flesh.
Excited, previously surrounding trees,
Press tongues with sweaty glass;
pantomiming prey.
The beast, imprisoned in death,
statically urges forward,
for the sugar blood of an infant.
OoO that was gooood! I liked that poem, and the descriptions were fantabulous. Keep up the non-disturbing work!
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