They live in fear

In the jungles of Serdune

Thriving on the floor

Among the moldy leaves

Always with their tall eye

Scanning the limbs above

Thousands thrive

United for survival

Against the one they hate

The ones who fed on hundreds

Snatching from above

Known only as the Kur

Years had passed

Since the Kur attacked

Pushed from the trees

By an amazing hunger

Feasting on friends

And family

The Phiocrytes remember

Sounds of laughter

Among the cracking bones

The celebration of the Kur

Over the strewn remains

Insulting the fallen prey

The Kur became their monsters

Full of hate and bile

Beasts reveling in pain

Unable to be civil

A grotesque apparition

Evolving to a demon

One day their time had come

As a crashing struck their nerves

They saw the bulbous form

Shattering branches

As it tumbled to the ground

Landing in a heap

They knew it was a Kur

Phantom of their dreams

Etched into their mind

Forcing hate to boil

Blind to the whimpering

Of their badly injured foe

Claws and fangs protrude

As the Phiocrytes descend

Burrowing into flesh

Breaking at the bones

In ways to make pain last

To extend their act of vengeance

The Kur dies slow

Amid an air of song

Celebration fills the floor

As the victors swarm with glee

Blissfully ignorant

Of the monsters they have become

(April 1st Entry of Ranting Papizilla’s poetry month challenge.)