Demoniac (revised)

They speak with razors,
aiming to flense,
hungrily seeking fresh meat.
Their words fly into the evening,
flying yet bound
to that wooden porch
of the Kansas camp,
barred from escaping
into the woods.

They twist her voice,
already brackish from
the nicotine of decades,
into a feral growl.
A violent animal
in a corner;
an animal
in a cage of Blood.

The Calvary advances,
warriors armed to the teeth,
shields burning golden in the perverse darkness,
rendering the creatures' blades useless;
their breastplates shining as the dawn,
breaking through the despairing cold;
wielding swords to demolish fortresses.
The army moves to war.

The watchmen utter;

the darkness convulses in the night.
The warriors advance,
the horn is sounded,
and the battle begins,
for the Bride has gone to war.