The withered,old and bedeviled count idly wonders
as he tranquilly sits lazily upon his perch high
above the ancient,crumbling ruins of the city...
Have the many centuries that have passed by like
water under the bridges of time made me a phallus
or a wrinkled old vagina, am I simply a rusty old
relic given over to the pretentious frailties of
fragile human emotion?
Do I reside upon the planes of wickedness without
remorse or do I humbly soar in the sunny skies of pleasantry?
Is bestiality and bloody sacrifice my true destiny
or is humaneness what makes my journey across the
shimmering white sands of time bearable?
Am I meant to live in the realm of uncaring joy
or am I destined to try to survive the harsh reality
of nightly bloodshed and mayhem?
There is but one mighty and true source from which
the answer might be found I think, and that is in the
ethereal,magical chambers of mysticism where the immortal
elders of the gods of darkness reside,for where else
could a tired old vampire like me,inquire about such a thing?
Donavon Scott Vinson
