It's a perpetuated, incoherant, fumbling of a whisper,

With a drifting, nearly silent, careful calling of disaster.

As we stumble toward this sound unheard, without much of a hinting,

there's a trembling, slender fingers, upon a darkened window, glinting.

Then the hand is passed, from sill, to the tiny pale throat,

and a head is lowered softly, then the silky skin is broke.

In the colors of the midnight, in this island of no escape,

a dark caped figure sighs so gently, at the steps it's forced to take.

For a lust, so consuming, that it overtakes every part,

as it yearns for all the flavor of the liquid of the heart.

It's a bloodlust, plain and simple, one impossible to stop,

and it all results in silent death of those who sleep through dark.

There's a beauty in the eyes of the one of whom we speak,

and his pale, pale face, it fills with color as he drinks.

There is silver hair above the ashen eyes, and teeth that glow so white,

and the pale slender finger which caressed his prey this very night.

His darkened cloak, the shade of raven's wings, a three-piece suit beneath,

flutter in the night time breeze as he sneaks out like a theif.

He stumbles in the pouring rain which is tumbling down in sheets,

and as he comes close, a dog looks up, it whines and then retreats.

He takes in a breath, his eyes grow sad, and sighs so very deep,

for as the sun returns, he creeps toward dark, to catch up on his sleep.