Tendrils of ebony slithering about,
looking to latch onto a soul so pure.

The purpose to drain the life within,
And raise it as their own; a creature of the dim.

The soul is ready,
the last of livelihood stripped away.

As from life comes death,
And from death is peace.
But peace turns to horror
As death becomes life.

They rise from the ground,
Hungry and ready to hunt.

Their tastes are unique,
They desire not a cow nor a horse,
Not a snake nor a rat.

They crave just one flavor,
And that flavor is you.