I wast searching f'r thee, mine own blood bound love. I has't wait'd f'r thy return f'r what doth feel like centuries. Mine own endless love f'r thee hast spann'd continents in mine own quest to findeth thee once m're. I has't ***'d through god’s great floods and skirt'd his **** fires, and hath continued to searcheth f'r thee still. I has't combated through the evil wars of men to nay vict'ry and battl'd the darkest fears of mine own heart: yond I shouldst die and thee wouldst nev'r again beest mine. Yet, mine own need to love thee hast prevail'd. It couldst not beest buried in the sands of time 'r hath kept lock'd hence in this dusty tomb. This feeble corpse and not restless mind wouldst not possess the will to survive if 't be true not f'r mine own imm'rtal need f'r thee, mine own love, the ev'rlasting love yond wast did bind to mine own et'rnal soul with the first gust of thy blood fire. I am so v'ry grateful to has't found thee once m're, f'r mine own thirst f'r thee, as the purest red love beats in mine own bitter cold heart, couldst nev'r die.
F'rev'r yours, Lady Ravenhill
@LadyRavenhill I post this old English/Shakespearean vampire's love letter in time for valentines. It is not a poem but prose, I suppose, and is part of my collection: W'rds of a Nimble-Footed Mistress. Enjoy, my eternal love. Drink up and enjoy.