It’s there.

Down deep

the dark deep

without at drip,

a drop,

or a peep.

Silent as a kingly tomb–

or a sleeping mother’s womb.

It sits as still as a blind mole rat–

but seething like a vampiric bat.

And if that door should open,

there is a truth unspoken.

It will go out to feed.

Spawning a terror stampede.

Gobbling, gobbling–no tasting, just killing.

No time to savor the fear it’s instilling.

It must feed.