Not like this, raw compulsion,
this pit of growling lust.
Feral, the smell, copper and iron,
medicinal charge to heal the wounds
of eternal damnation.
Red stains. No rule or discipline can cage
unending need for living blood.
So gleefully he beckoned, promised flowing,
an existential thrill well beyond what paltry
passion could indulge.
Far too late to protest or argue,
here where existence is throes of sick
insistence.  Far beyond reach of a
coherent self to control or resist.
A passion play, my Lords and Ladies
vicariously feast, aglow in rapture of greed,
the raucous laughter of power.
A salacious toy for hideous sport.
What matters, all that is real, is night
blood and sacrifice to gods of cruel command.
Unbound by penance or shame.
Hot energy flows.
My only ability is to feed.



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