(A Hunger That Love, Nor Lust, Nor Life Can Quench)

She feasts upon the trembling night,
Where passion pales beneath her bite,
A queen of hunger—black, ignites,
Her lips devour, her hands incite.

Her thirst is not for fleeting touch,
Nor whispered love, nor tender clutch,
She craves the fire, the frenzied rush,
The breaking body—never much.

Each kiss she plants, a starving plea,
Her pulse—an echo lost at sea,
No hands can bind, no man can see,
The void that feeds insatiably.

She climbs the bed like lioness,
Her thighs demand, her claws possess,
A brutal need—a sweet distress,
A ruin dressed in soft caress.

A thousand men have tried to sate,
The hunger dwelling in her fate,
But flesh is dust, and love is late,
And still she sways, unfilled, innate.

No moan, no cry, no whispered name,
Can quench the furnace in her frame,
She tastes, she teases, plays the game,
But feeds forever, just the same.

For death itself must strike the chord,
And pierce her deep with final sword,
To hush the beast, to close the door—
But even hell cannot afford.