The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Weeping of faint mist, a delicacy,

Unknown without wings of dead gold,

A hand of mine placed on hers, she has me sold,

What a soul to me, feign my ignorance, with this kris.



A dagger so imposed at my throat, a lost child,

Beggar's bonded out, my palace lost in doubt,

What once was mine, wrought with pain and wild,

I am imagining drapes of white and hidden statues again.



Dungeons, chains strapped on her neck,

What a wonderful sight to me, locked in place,

But I yearned like a beast for biting, so exciting,

What have I become? A man or something frightening?



Do not despair she beckons,

Is this my refrain from time's long awaited demand,

Or another gaze met with a messy strand,

Of her crimson hair, so soft as the silk damp sand.



Bestowed upon me an elegance of words,

What naught is poetry unearthed,

But of spells I desire to be reality birthed,

Ghosts whisper these phrases, but I am just ageless.

Beseech me oh sweet tempest, pestilent one,

What hides between all lines and squared angst,

Pined below a withered tongue, such delightful sun,

Oh hailstorm what have I done to deserve such good thanks.



Bleeding of potency, I feel the churning of bone,

What horrid words, pain, agony, torment, suffering,

Torrents rain as the summer's eve never ends in tone,

Why cannot this darkness never tend to my flowering?



Ah yes, then the burns, the singe, the always yearning,

The giving and peeling of skin, why nature are you so unkind,

Cruel yet so beautiful at times, I ask why in your discerning,

Do you leave some behind and others alive to unwind?

Preach to me oh saints of an ending,

Of what once was a sanctity of fractures,

Pictures burning, memories established and tainting,

Underwhelmed by overwhelming contraptions.



What before me, a spinning wheel, spines aligned,

Howling beneath agonizing itself along curtains,

Streaming among contortionists, whipping mine,

Bring me salvation of the damned if I am contained.



Lycan lightning is what I offer, but refused by remissions,

Jointed at the bone, a twin so swimmingly as fire remains,

Bellowing as furnace playing, whenever could I condition,

Have I gone too far past humanity to receive or obtain?

Set sail an eternity of eaten dead,

Of which none shall ever receive their heads,

What shall he heed such rebuked stirring,

Watching the birch die underneath a blurring.



What wallowing cries I heard, a gasp of slurs,

Deterred not by whichever fell bell had be bestowed,

I am lost beneath weights of a grave hearse,

Have not ears, not eyes, but a ship below.



The captain swallowed me whole, a lie or vie,

Such heat, such destroying speech, would I,

Be taken to the seas to be cleansed with ire,

Or be knocked frail of all things and pretend to sire.

Inscribing on my head, a touch so vainly withered,

I gaze into blackness, a cauldron so empty but full of leather,

Hides and satchels, what is this I wonder, but no matter,

Could I begin to under this mystery of heavy weather?



A bead of sweat drips as I smoke this fine delicacy,

No cares whatsoever of the contents, so heavenly,

Alls well that ends well they tell me, use this, use that,

The walls melt in subliminal apathy, a conjuration eulogy.



But no matter, I have work to attend, matters to bend,

Wills to right, breaks to make, studies to reach,

Speeches to eat, things must be quelled,

Too much quarrel makes me feel fell.

Dead man's hand he says, sparking a lighter,

A gaze so fierce should he stare a hole in yours,

I could never be a match for him, such eyes,

My eternal soul would be his in an instant I vie.



Some call him the Wickerman, some the Mothman,

To me, let's just say, we have a closer relationship,

Long begotten friends he and I, or she,

I don no names for it's purpose but it's undeniable glee.



Could I be what it wanted, an advocate? A subjugate?

I don't know but it haunts me, such lovely partake,

An envy till the end, where we both will kiss,

My bride for existence's failed price, a final wish.

Bent in two, a section of tempting voices,

Chorus of words acting upon actions of oysters,

Crackling at the shells, a horse from the sea,

Riding from the kraken, holding a viper's head.



What is this masked man, scythe in hand,

Could nothing of imagination be so desolate?

So created from falsehood, a ghastly figure,

May God rest his soul for he shines,

But resides as a hollow till end of time.



But maybe the clock work will never hold him,

This horsemen, his stead neighing with steam,

Could his cloak immolate with his obsidian face?

Or would he just flash an ace?