Supplicate

In the nighted woods

By the light of a full moon

The beast runs freely.

She is made of blood

the flesh of those before her

the moon,

high, full,

weeping from the envied sun.

She has eaten hearts.

Sustenance matched only by

minds of sinners,

because she was once.

A sinner.

A sinner in her life

A god by death,

because now they fear.

They have never feared her

more than this night.

Gods are made of fear.

The ground supplicates beneath her

claws against the doors

that denied her;

they didn’t fear her before

she was this.

She feasts off their fear,

now eating their eyes

with her bestial insanity.