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If these are the crimson skies,
Then I burn in a sapphire hell.
The midnight calling has sounded,
But I cannot answer to it.

Wrists bound; mind in turmoil,
Screaming for release; I writhe.
I shall escape from these confines,
And when I do--run.

Skin so pale with eyes so dark,
Hunger that rips across the centuries.
Anger is petty--Oh! but this is fury,
And I will not take such offenses lightly!

I will not be trapped!
I will not be imprisoned!
I will not bow down to you,
Sire or no, I refuse!

So then, the battle rages on,
My cold hands at your throat.
My cruel fangs ripping at your cool flesh,
The chilling night air whipping by.

As soon as it has begun it is over--done.
You stare at me coldly,
As I walk away,
Your bloody heart pulsing in my palm.