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We swept into the sleepy town
on wings of night; we were
a rushing, a ferocious wind
and we were hungry.
Some felt us coming.
Some amongst the fat
and frightened sleepers
raised their heads, their hooded eyes
would try in vain to pierce the dark -
as always, they would try to find
a refuge in a fire, that is all
they ever knew to have,
to stand between them and the endless night,
filled to the brim with life
that wants to feast upon them,
wants to sink its flashing teeth
without a second's hesitation
deep into their unprotected flesh
and tear their worlds apart
in a bright ruby sacrifice,
a baptism of blood that ends
their meaningless existence.
But all the fires do
is blind them further still
and take away whatever chance
they might have had to rise and flee,
or to agree and find a balance,
learn our ways and share our days and nights
in some form that resembles an ecology -
but they do no such thing,
instead they quiver and they tremble,
they pray, they stare -
right up until their end.
Yet there are others, rare amongst them,
who would try to see.
In every village, every town
there are a chosen few
who celebrate the coming of our kind,
who see us not as monsters
but as saviours and they prayed
that we should come and take revenge
on their behalf on all that madness,
all that sadness,
all those pointless lives and lies -
those are the children of the night,
they run to us and they care not
if they should live or die,
for those we are salvation,
either way.
So here we are and here we stand
in drifting veils of time and power,
our family is here and there before us
lies the sleeping town.
Bright is the moon above;
it lights the shadow shapes
of those few who have come to greet us,
meet us and invite us to begin the feast -
as is tradition, we enfold them first
and some of those if they are strong and pure
will join our family;
and others will find sweet release
and will receive the blessing of the night.
This serves to heighten our senses;
and the hunger is now such
that we must laugh and spin.
We stand together one more time as one,
we play with our exquisite and excruciating need,
we make it crest as high as it will be;
and then we rush into the town
and now, the feast begins.
SFX 2006
Submitted by drak47, from the Metasong Vampire Poems Index
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