So old, so old, so ancient
And unutterably weary and yet—
With the face of a dreadful angel I rise
Each night as I must.
By gas light, by lamp light, by pale moon
Like fog I move.
The wind blows, the curtains billow
As they must. An invitation.
Again? I whisper. Again? Yes.
The hunger. Yes.
Like fog, I move. The room is dark.
Beneath a canopy, lies what I seek.
So warm, the pulsing flesh.
Untroubled, the brow, the slow heaving bosom.
Pity? Yes. But the hunger is strong.
I enter her dream. She moans.
With a ghostly hand, I smooth the brow
With ghostly fingers, I expose the neck
There is time, still time—but no.
I bite down hard, there is no turning back
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