by Viking

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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