The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

The Idea Of The Trees



Beacon standing on the mountain side,

I strain my neck back glaring up at your back against the sky,

Like giants watching over us the wind creates a sigh,

Like lords of time you watch over our societies,





Burning when we yearn for more,

Ripping skin off for aesthetics we sadistically muse,

Our right to use your old grown cells muscle,

For shelters that hold no protection for your music,





Would we change our tune if we could realize,

Like broken down remnants of previous generations imprint revelation,

That our ancients sit watching our dangerous race,

Built on thousands the chemical amalgam is our past reconnected,





Like breathing beacons of past you give and give,

Unwilling to see you as a part of us by ego species gained,

Can we not see you impart air in a chemical plethora of gold?

Giving back the second piece to the very air we get,







Like great elders I wonder what you’ve seen,

Standing stationary for centuries what lives and rests witness our sins?

Given scene to our concept of majesty you sing,

Bouncing wind you tell us of our youth and rash strife’s,





But always calm like standing guardians we can go to your base,

Sitting calmly in pose of where even our earliest thinkers were born,

You give insight in whispers of time of holding without budging,

Sage love births at the flow of your own silence building,





Utilize while replenishing may be our only choice allowed,

For how can you play unbalanced removal of breath in archetype?

Like fools we slay great lords of the past aeon,

Never letting break down to create our new additions to the ages,





Preservation is impossible entropy calls your bluff of evermore,

So will your ego blind those who would give back to the entirety?

For a piece in a chain can only way down the link by growing bigger to enjoy,

Until the chain breaks from the weight you imposed so enthusiastically,





Saying never use is an impossible dream,

So cherish and thank the ancestors you rip down,

They keep you warm, dry, safe, secure, and inhaling deeply,

Giving praise to our motion by paying their due,





Like subconscious recycling nature gives that to you,

No charge to yourselves but your bodies and youth,

Like a loving mother who births, kills, breaks down, and regrows like yeast,

So a game of trade off should give us vision over years,





But stubborn we are to let ourselves be apart,

Of a natural game we were playing at our alpha-dawning,

The game we hide from and combat ageing ailments,

Though freely entangling ourselves to human alignments,





Then we are the friend who won’t pay back his debt,

Even after learning how bad the investment hurt our friend by doing,

But worse than a friend we struck out at our mothers discord,

She tries to explain in overview of eras she is not dastardly,



Yet we still think we are the only creature deserved of respect by ourselves and anyone,

The most pathetic of images given by an institution we cannot trust anymore,

So why hold the tie that makes our world the monstrous ambiguity,

Why not give in to the powerless action of progressive life as an anomaly,

Thank the trees our forefathers resurrected through force automatically,

And eat the fruits of their break down they will speak this truth through your anatomy,

Interactions of water and nutrients we share everything but aesthetics,

The secret relieving agent our guardians stave off anxiety,

Allowing for their own destruction for they are part of us all…







Sean Stutzman

Drums Do Call





When I hear their laugh it calls me back,

To a dream of a life in my dreams,

To a land that makes my mind shudder,

From the beauty I can’t recall,



Let my mind dance as my body would move,

Let my inwards view become my out,

Let the world hear my inner voice,

Calling hello to the trees as I pass,



For though they stop their chuckling,

My brain never loses their reminding call,

That life is a voyage,

And that my player is of it all,



I hear my elders call to me,

In languages I can’t recall,

But every voice shimmers like the striking head,

Answering my soul to their stories,



No I am not one person,

Not even in design,

A million images and cells create me,

My mind built on ancestors faults in time,



For should I answer back,

Play out their droning calls,

Or should I move to embrace them,

As each mallet falls,



I shall move my rhythm to the world’s song,

Though only one man in influence,

A demonstration of character to all,

For in my world so far from their song,

I move to answer them in turn and call,

Let all who were and all who will be dance to the drums song,

And from all will come one species song banging into the vacuum,

A symphony so brilliant it only sounds as one planets bond,

Like a page of sheet music from my dream world,

How many others abound…







Sean Stutzman