At 3 a.m.
they come to play,
disturb your sleep,
disrupt your day.
They sing and giggle
out of sight.
They cry and cut you
through the night.
“They don’t exist!”
the people say.
The creatures like it
just that way.
Their smiles malignant,
gleaming white,
‘Your blood so red,
it tastes so right.’
And in the sunrise,
glowing gold,
your heart is still.
Your flesh is cold.
At 3 a.m.
they come to play,
cavort, and
steal your soul away.
Love it. Nicely done, my friend.
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