Lament of the Vampire

Quaint blood adorns this mottled mouth,
Corruption a wanton, ill-fitted guest,
To flesh immortal by sire-laden decree,
Rendered eternal at his Divine behest.

To yearn for the many-speckled light,
Cast from the heaven's mundane orb,
To pine for days of steel and lore,
Which this sullied frame would absorb,

As chill winter's wine, ice-enrimmed,
Sparkling in dark, moody array,
The ardour of endless days is dimmed,
Buried by the curt, candle-brief play,

Of mortals twined in the decrepit coil,
Of their own penultimate demise,
Destined to fall, ensconced by soil,
Death a reward, surcease and prize.

So below a darkling god on high,
I heft the chalice of crimson repast,
And drink deeply, knowing not when,
Calm death will stake his claim at last.