Dull is the day.
A new thrill in the night.
A shrill scream in her flight.
Blood is dripping, the ax is lifting
Last of his kind,
a creature of night,
life in perpetual darkness,
neverending, the madness.
The spirits are raising,
pursuers are racing,
with a goal of ending his splendid ambition.
The endless ordeal has come to an end,
his final salvation eluded again.
The blood is no longer dripping,
his hands, no longer ripping the flesh.
Rapture is gone, once again he's alone.
He's come to oblivion, forgotten again,
ignored, but prison can bind him only so long.
Not too sure about the title. Not too sure if the story is in any way coherent or inferable from the text.