“Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?… No voice from sublimer world hath ever, To sage or poet these responses given – Therefore the name of God and ghosts and Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavour”
– Shelley (Hymn To Intellectual Beauty)
Immortality Comes To You, You Do Not Go To Immortality
Her lips like rosebuds slumbered dead, and yet they whispered all filled with dread a bleating warning to his ear, a phantom rumour filled with fear. “I ask you not to take from her the crimson nectar that you prefer–”
He ignored her cries, that ruinous maid and her ghostly lies. Sick to the stomach was he, all foamed up in misery.
His understanding long had changed to think her death she had arranged, all his grief had been in vain and nought of this was his bloodstain. But close at hand she whispered still her aching heart and her phantom will.
“I understand, my love, you hurt, but please do hear this excerpt–”
He would not listen whence she came, his will as strong as root vervain. “Enough!” he called in anger cloud; his fiery eyes burning proud. “You are not here! You do not speak! You vicious ghost are growing weak!”
But yet she stuttered three broken words-
“I will not listen. Not once,” said he, “to all this poison meant for me. You’ll be gone with dawn light’s grace and soon I will forget your face.”
Great weeping wracks attacked her chest. Couldn’t he see she meant the best? This girl he sought was a mortal fool searching for a bloodlust vestibule. She did not love him. Not one bit. Her heart was cold and preyed unlit.
Beneath the moon, the vampire tramped, towards a bitter doom he stamped. Doom would lead him a bitter dance. His heart she’d stolen not by chance. It was vanity that ruled her brow. To gain immortal beauty she’d wondered how.
Out she stepped, in the moonlight fair, not seeing the dead one walking there. Her eyes locked on to her lover’s stare, but her words of love were less than rare.
Beneath the trees watched his fallen bride and when he lunged out she cried. She begged him not to pierce the skin of one whose darkness veiled so thin. And yet he cut with sharpened teeth a path that spilled up red relief, draining ‘til he heard the splutter, the warning cry and helpless gutter.
Then pressed he, his wrist to lips that took up gulps not merely sips of his mortal blood, his tainted power, surely turning her within the hour. Gulps and gulps – it disappeared. Barely droplets left he blindly feared.
Dim beneath the darkening light, he saw the figure bathed in white weeping for his self-made plight. The dampened grass soft brushed his face, his body dropped in lightning haste. The girl, she sped fast from the clearing, the molten dawn was soon appearing.
Three broken words caressed his ear though, knew she, he could barely hear. He felt her kiss, her coldest kiss, and understood his damned mistake to trust the words and actions of a self-obsessed and greedy fake.
Three broken words, though spoken silent. Words of heart and not made pliant.
This is a piece in accordance with Stevie McCoy’s #Nightgale blog challenge. Please check out my next piece next Thursday and the other entrants by following the hash tag on twitter.
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