On a pale, foggy, dew kissed dawn,
Emerged two jaded images out of the dark.
The young one carried a long shovel,
While the older clasped a blood stained prong.
With cold sweat running down their spines,
They stepped out of an old yard of abandoned graves.
The aged, impious beast was now dead and obscured.
It would return no more to quench its insatiable thirst.
Deep down, its mind, lurked lust without a moment of respite.
A pretentious companion of good conduct to the world.
Wedlock was a subterfuge, and infidelity was its way of life.
Before it could prey on its own blood, the predator itself became the kill.