The vampire is just a fool who speaks
of forever.
There is only so much candle. There is
only so much flame.
Some live a Fourth-of-July life,
exploding,
Making themselves robust and memorable.
They live long after they die, inside
other minds.
The vampire takes another route
altogether,
Simmering out its days as a pale ember,
Mortgaging a present of pallor
For a future of squalor.
Is that which has neither humanity nor
consequence
Still a thing, still a life?
The vampire is a coward, tasting many
deaths,
All of them its own.
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