The imps are feasting hungrily each night,
More sport than hunger, their laughter betrays intent.
Such wicked joy taken, sucking all hope from marrow.
If my love will not drag me from the flames,
Don’t judge me harshly if I choose to stay.
My hurt will rise in smoke, my body witness no more.
Grieving will be short, not casting a shadow over lives.
The endless play of teeth and claw has has worn me,
My heart wretched, in truth my death has already come.