on cold, dark nights, he can be found,
hid from the lights, upon the ground,
with blood-shot eyes he stalks his prey,
no worldly-ties, no words to say,
his soul is locked beneath the soil,
his body trapped in endless toil,
he hungers for another life,
a chance to end his bitter strife,
alas he must, and always shall,
remain a slave, an immor-tal,
his lust to ****, to drink the life,
with fangs that shame a hunter's knife,
this want and need have all control,
and keep him from his mortal soul,
a slave to blood, to evil needs,
deprived of love, and all good deeds.
Nekatu Poetry © Arik Fletcher
