Inanition Called It

The following poem, written in the villanelle poetry form, is inspired by the Arab legends of the Ghuls- cannibalistic, blood-drinking, grave-robbing, ugly cousins of the vampires.

They are evil djinns that trick you into making a wish ‘Death Note’ or ‘Hell Girl’ style. Every self-serving wish comes with a generous side-serving of gruesome horrors, inflicted on others and yourself. It may come when called, but it only leaves when it pleases- when there isn’t anything left to ruin.

You called it, now it waits,
Silently in the grave; before the coffin descends.
Our inanition sates.

The Ghul’s hunger endless, devourer of flesh and fates.
Rotten cadavers, corroded spirits, it rends.
You called it, now it waits.

It sheds its skin and from a taste of your blood, it recreates,
Your form is made its own and it doesn’t need to, but it pretends.
Our inanition sates.

It doesn’t bother with a chase or baits.
It starts the game, and when it decrees, it ends.
You called it, now it waits.

The crimsoned ground itself contemplates,
The ashy mist and viscera adorning the path of the cold fiends.
Our inanition sates.

Deserted sites and desolate hearts, dead virtue and forgotten dates,
They are its realm; to the forsaken it attends.
You called it, now it waits.
Our inanition sates.


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