They

This poem was done during Criminal Justice class. I didn't mean for it to turn out this way, honest. I'm trying to write a good surrealistic/ethereal poem... and so far it hasn't worked... ah well, back to the drawing board.

The mist hung low over the land.
Moonlight splashed its pale sweetness
Across the barren field.

This is how it always is when They come.
When They come out and have Their share.
They come out for Their feast.

Each full moon They come shrieking.
Their screams fill the landscape
And mingle with the death-cries of the people.

Their feast is a gruesome display
Of shredding flesh and flaying bones.
Blood runs thick, mingling with the pale moonlight.

Yet no one argues. We welcome this feast.
We become one with nature.
Our life is torn from our lungs.

and we are made whole.