We enjoy the night, the darkness, where we can do things that aren’t acceptable in the light. Night is when we slake our thirst.
– William Hill, “Vampire’s Kiss”
The Span of the Immortals
The first few nights were rubies, shining red
And dripping with a substance thick as wine
And just as potent, but with shades of dread
And flavorings of honey and of brine.
The months and years stretched out in one long strand
Hung with the ever-changing midnight pearls;
Their path was always random, never planned,
Their wake a rippling line of crimson swirls.
Time lagged behind them as they passed it by,
Like rabbits running from some gore-toothed hound.
The sun trailed after them, a worried eye
That searched for secrets that it never found.
The days and nights grew longer, and the moon
Became a frowning and accusing glare.
The North Star laughed, and hummed a mourner’s tune—
They turned their backs, pretending not to care.
One night, deep in some strange and foreign land,
He left her at the evening’s sullen close.
She waited, feeling dawn fall like a hand,
And rise, and fall again in endless blows.
The days that followed were like molten lead,
Burning her heart, her skin, her very bones.
Time gives no mercy to the shallow dead;
Gods turn deaf ears to such a being's moans.
And one night she escaped her empty room
And wandered down to watch the river run
Beneath the bridges. Darker than the gloom,
She waited for the solace of the sun.
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