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Image for the poem Mystique

Mystique

She wears the night, a mystery
A beauty clad solely in black
No one knows her history
Or the likelihood she will attack
 
He meets her in a downtown bar
Takes her to his motel room
Pours wine from the private bar
Naïve of his impending doom
 
She sinks her incisors in his throat
Swallows deeply, drains him dry
She steps back, begins to gloat
Relishing her preferred high
 
She then revels in the dark
His body shriveled on the floor
She whispers that it was a lark
Then steps back in the night she wore.
Written by crowfly
Published
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