S T A R V I N G--
It’s practically starving, ( with so little to eat ),
awoken from its l o n g r e s t so far from where the humans run free & careless.
( Much too far to clamber off towards without a full belly first, )
& in times like these, the clown cannot be.... p i c k y.
The songbird in his grasp struggles & stutters,
chittering with ignorant indignation
& Pennywise can feel its rapid heartbeat under his fingers.
( Drool gathers, thick & sticky against his bottom lip, dribbling down his chin )
as he squeezes & the thing lets out a shrill screech, struggling against his grasp.
It’s more than he can stand-- even what little fear it is drives the creature of impossibility to the brink,
his stomach aching, his eyes rolling back as his lips part, & his jaw swings open, moving his hands to shove the tortured little thing into his maw-
& then something is heard ( a rustle of leaves, a break of a twig perhaps-- )
enough to turn the gaze of the crouching d e m o n.
Enough to make him relinquish his grasp on the songbird,
which goes flying in a panic toward the treetops.
( a lost meal. )
But by the scent of it, Pennywise won’t be missing much.
Not with something better so close by.
It stands, then,
raising slowly, like a marionette with broken strings,
his hands dangling at his sides,
his white & crimson features lax,
golden eyes trained on the clearing beyond.
& then he catches sight of the WOMAN,
& a smile begins to spread.
“ Hullo----! What’s a nice girl like you doing out here,
in these weeds & trees & thorns? ‘S no place for a pretty little flower like yourself-- “
