Time To Hunt
The night-light descends.
Nocturnal animals scurry to their dens.
Save perhaps the fox and local cats.
They merely look on with mild curiosity.
I walk the street in subtle form.
Past the train station and tree-lined avenues.
To the blocks of flats where good citizens dwell.
All a sleeping as it should be.
Recalling how, in times past, I mingled with the Bostonian intelligentsia and officials.
Not the brightest, and puritan they surely were.
They never seemed to connect the strange news stories that came out every so often with the British lord they regularly spoke with.
No surprise as I always keep myself hidden in plain sight.
I ascend the stairs of one of the blocks of flats.
The door to a particular apartment holds little issue as I wander inside — to the room of altars.
“Oh, my sweet one,” I whisper as she slumbers in her bedchamber, a sultry princess from the dark continent.
“Awaken my luscious succubus,” I breathe, stroking her hair, “for it is time to hunt.”
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