Suburban Decay

She sautés from between tables,

Narrowly avoiding the jaws of each wolf,

Waiting to claim her.

The sharp teeth and sharper suits,

Corporate comb overs, slicked back,

With the blood of the last lamb.

She is a vision of beauty,

Blurred while entwined,

In the evasive grace,

Saviour’s Slow dance.

What must she give away to satiate these beasts?

So that their bellies may bulge,

Content in their consumption of innocence,

Devouring.

What will she serve,

When the last bottle,

Have poured out its Spirit?

Will soul suffice?

Oh, how the beasts will clamour!

Such a prize!

Pirouette!

His claws were close.

Perhaps tonight may be your last.

When the wolves strip your soul from the bone,

What will become of you then?

-Rob Padfield