she feasts on yet another of the living
The blood drawn beast, winged like a bat
a scavenger of the heavens in search of human heart
A far cry from how she stands under sunlight;
A woman of scorn shun from the evils of the night
She rests in her lair smiling at her harvest;
Feeding off the souls of the generation she plunders.
Ah! But her satisfaction is short-lived.
Erstwhile the hunger for the living takes heed.
She bathes herself of oil cursed by her predecessor
Jarring to turn into this ghoulish raptor
The rituals of the dark, she dances and chants
slowly turning to a half-split avian lycanth.
Her eyes turn black, horrid with lust;
And finally, the manananggal, she becomes.
She fleets to the skies cloaked in Luna’s clouds
Up til dawn wrecking havoc in the towns
She does not choose man, woman, young and old;
For everyone is prey to this creature of the cold.
And as night blesses her with a soul to embark,
The manananggal charges to churn on her snack.
Intestines, eyes, brains, guts and livers;
hearts, lungs, limbs, flanks, ears and fingers.
It is impossible to flee from her grasp
She haunts you even when you do break from her wrath.
For those who escape her fangs aren’t survivors
Later in the day, they too shall become such carnivores.
Oh! A woman of myth some may have thought her to be;
But let it be known to you and to all who wish to be free
that I have proof the mananaggal does exist.
She had just delivered a speech earlier this week.