A Vampiric Lament

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

In writing a submission for a dark poetry contest, I found myself being pulled into writing something based along the lines of my Memoirs of a Forgotten story that I have been off and on working on. At any rate, its amateur at best but thought to post it anyways. Enjoy.

Vampiric Lament

Long ago, my marrow froze

My heart ceased to beat in frantic rythmn and emotion became something worn chrisply

Something sampled like chilled wine or tasted like a baited breath on a fleeing cheek

Something fleeting and flighty, fearless yet fearful, all emotions were but a theatre's fabric

A patchwork of sorrows, of pains not yet understood

A patchwork called a darkness due solely to being of unknown heavy depths and treacherous peaks.

A patchwork of pain that we remember only as the failures, the disappointments, the events that so bring our eyes to the brink of tears and then deny their flow

Or like a gyser spill and turn that sharpness like a sword turned deep within our bloodied core.

Pain, is but a teacher and even the hardiest of flesh succumbs to its succor and yet, it is in the shade, that we find meaning.

It is in the dark we are forged, it is in the dark, the silence and the secret that we find a reason to exist.

The push and pull of the very essence of creation, the ebb and the flow of the blue vein within the flesh

Demanding the heart to beat, we find ourselves moved to motion, to action and to purpose.

The hunt of the genuine, the curse of the gray.

The lure of the forgotten and the torment of the seaming.

It is within that textile room of the interwoven complexity of life that we sit as travelers in humanity's vehicle.

it is through those crusted sharp panes of growth, we bang upon the glass seeking to change the tapestry machine's rythmn.

It is through that stained glass, we stare ineffectual to the hems cut short and folds worn thin before the thread is lain down in fateful noose.

It is in that dispair we are buried at crossroads without our choosing and our words seen as eightballs shook until vague words have found purchase in the relevant in times far beyond our births.

The tapestry lain down, the thread lain bare, the age of denial comes to an end.

Beware the commonality of buttons pushed, the lure of like knowing like that draws one towards the other.

It is in the flames, moths gather and we are no different than that which we walk along side.

in the end, we are as mortal as they

and decieved as any.


by. E.VA.

Submitted: August 14, 2014

© Copyright 2020 Aranea. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



Oleg Roschin

Beautifully written... I love the whole morbidly lush, "decadent" atmosphere of this piece. You truly paint with words, and it feels exquisite and delicious, like a gourmet dish. Always a big fan of your writing, and really looking forward to more - please keep it up!

Fri, June 16th, 2017 7:58am

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