Fired by love’s immortal flame.
Called and consecrated by drinking pure fresh blood.
I whispered on the wind and she came to me.
My crimson eyes dripping tears of lust,
Washing away her human frailties.
I didn’t hide my fangs, or my icy touch, as I bade her find new life.
She danced and writhed, moulding herself on my wicked phallus.
And in the bliss of post-coital rest, as our juices mingled,
She hardly felt the little prick of my fangs.
Her blood coursing through me, bringing life and power.
Her beauty, breathtaking and, if she would drink,
She would become my bride.
I shall find her a victim all ripe for the cause,
Then I shall call him to come
on the tears of my lust.
Let her bite, if she chooses, at his most throbbing vein
For if she does, I shall be freed from pain.
