The orphanage I run outside of town,
where children's names quite often disappear,
there's no one keeping count when lights go down.
It's only I who even knows they're here.
While over years, a taste I have acquired.
Quite sinister this urge my mind constrains.
I'll gladly end a life, for that's required.
So succulent the taste of children's brains.
But dark are not my horrid acts or nerve.
Much deeper in my mind you'd have to search.
The darkest of it all is what I serve...
the secret little dish I share at church.
I'll fill the need for craving appetites...
another child adopted out tonight.
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Sinister Sonnet
Contest Winner
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Author Notes
Hopefully voters will acknowledge the correct iambic meter of a sonnet, within the entries, when placing their votes.
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