In retrospect I should have been a poet
For poets lack the cunning of lies
They are harsh, tender, subtle and raw
They dapple in black and white
And color the imagination with a world of wizardry.
Vampires have forgotten much of what
They wished to have forgotten
When once They knew it well.
They dance upon thin threads of deciept
And choose Their partners like a babe chooses candy.
Poets love the hate that tears them apart
They live the life that corrodes the fabric
Of what they conceive to be happiness
Poets live in a world of fresh, open, thrashing emotions
They are the knights that brave the world
In the raw light to convey to the rest of Us
The things in which we have learned to ignore.
Vampires ignore all that does not affect Them.
They feed when needed, love when necessary or appropriate
Lie as needed, kill as allowed
Then quickly forget all emotion that comes from all this.
For how shall They survive?
How can They live with Themselves
If not in forgetfulness?
If They allowed the weight of Their sins
To thrash down upon Them with the speed of justice?
They do not exsist some say.
I know better.
My kind has always exsisted.
We are the concievable inconception.
We are the benevolent abnegation.
We are the confident obstanant irresolution.
We are what's left of the forgotten void.
One day when We are nearly forgotten
That is when We will be seen.
We will be as humans are...
We will rule the earth
We from our holes, and castles
We from out beds and graves
We from your homes.
What a sad lot We shall become,
For We shall inherit the faults of the earth.
In retrospect I should have been a poet.

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