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orbs reeking of ravening hunger as she'd sophistically flash her wicked smile
her pale ivory flesh moulded her impeccably; it had always been her hoax disguise
born with a soft leather touch that had caused her tribe's demise;
she was the leader of the sirens, and her aura was the most volatile
ichor dripping down from her lean fingers; as she massacred the men merely with her guile
their silent whimpers were like sweet-sounding tales, as she sent them far off to a deathly abyss
her means- sinister and twisted; she was the analogue of someone iniquitously hostile
the city plagued by her presence; heard eerie screams in the silence of the starless night
a corrupt immortal who knew just right; spent her days pretending to be someone meekly naive
YOU ARE READING
Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
