He dwells within the velvet of the dark,
Where silence leaves a cold and hollow mark.
With skin of marble and a heart of stone,
He walks the midnight corridors alone.
No mirror holds the secret of his face,
A wanderer outside of time and space.
The crimson wine is all he craves to feel,
To make the ghost of human passion real.
A touch of lace, a cape of midnight blue,
With eyes that burn a deep and haunted hue.
He fears the sun and hates the golden light,
A prisoner of the never-ending night.
He sleeps in soil that smells of ancient sleep,
Where secrets of the centuries he'll keep.
The bite of frost, the elegance of death,
Without a heartbeat or a living breath.
A lonely hunter in the moon's soft glow,
Watching the rivers of the ages flow.
A beautiful curse, a shadow on the wall,
Until the bells of morning start to call.