
Poetry by DERELICT

			Vampiric Feast

Death beckons its voice in the cold night air
I listen, I listen; you do not hear
to carry the weight is a burden to bear
but you look into the night- unaware
I strike, I strike; plunge fangs into your neck
drain you of blood then leave you weak
lying on the ground, willpower shall break
I run home, run home- unaware

			
			Different Thinking

A slice of bread rests on a plate
still, yet ging slowly
eventually itself molding-
a new fresh idea from old yeast and flour-
thrive in an obscure environment

The one at home passes by the bread,
now green in fungal ecstasy-
distrusting, disgusted at its sight-
belief of bread as harmful grows-
the slice is pitched away-
a garbage bag is tied

Yet, the mold still thrives upon
the bread, now resting in a landfill...
mold cultures itself again
on another slice of untouched bread



