Revelations of the Vampire
My brother, we might seem to be blessed,
Nor sickness nor man could get us ever dead.
We wander on this Earth endlessly,
Living in dark, for all eternity.
We think, we breath and we think that
We love, and being loved, but
All what we fake to love, we’ve ever touched,
Has been damned to turn quickly to dust.
We dream of a life more than this shallow,
More than the blood we so badly crave for.
And, though self in this hollow existence,
Love and devotion makes an appearance.
Sometimes a fool approaches us kindly,
But the rage is too strong, it is the truth:
Dear brother, it may sound first a bit rude,
But we’re definition of souls to be doomed.
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