Vampire

Age dwells in despair,
in disappointment,
in pangs politely called experience.
It does not walk with shame,
covering Its face to hide,
skulking in shadows
of desolate alleyways.

Rather, it flaunts,
brilliantly frocked,
wrapped in hungry regalia -
the beauty of sapped innocence.
With pomp and swagger,
It parades the streets
waving to throngs
of no one.

The others who find themselves
in this brief, dreary place,
are inside out:
contained in their sadness,
instead of it being
contained in them.

They feel through,
instead of think through,
their loss, their regret,
their missteps and mistakes.

They only know
that they don't know:
where they are,
how they got here,
or how they will get through.

This is Age's prey,
this learning youth -
shocked by bitter pills,
disrobed, birthed bare,
new eyes bleary, blinking,
the desperate, sighing,
failing heart.

This dove is Its quarry
and It comforts,
pleading and promising:

"I know where you are.
I know how you got here.
I know the way through.
But, I must be paid."

Permission granted,
Age draws near,
compelled and confident,
its vestments of memory
demanding,
thirsting,
to taste and absorb
this feast before it fades.

Grasped too hard,
the sacrifice trembles,
petrified, paralyzed from
steely clasped fingers;
and with sudden recognition
of what will be lost,
and scared of unknown
destinations,
reconsiders too late.

Pitiless, ruthless,
knowing it hurts to heal,
Age drinks.

In a hiccup of time
containing all gravity and none,
Age drinks.

Of willing fruit,
ready to fall and rot,
ready to seed and start again,
Age drinks.

 

Sated for the moment,

Age allows the flush
to seep in and renew,
feeling the intoxication
of what life before Despair is like.

Capturing the remembrance,
It weaves every thread
of it into Its garb,
before the constant thirst
forces forgetting
and Age must hunt again.

But what of the crestfallen?

The berry, harvested and juiced -
what has become of her?
Is she but husk of skin,
used up and discarded,
flotsam and jetsam
on the tide of time?

No, she has risen -

up and above -
wiped away the grime
of tears and shame.

She stands now
with Age inside,
for though It took away
the freedom of naivety
It also gave her
the grace and warmth
of Wisdom,
whose armour is far more comfort
than the fleeting allurements
of youthful beauty.

And so she travels

beyond Despair,
with eyes forward and up,
and though she is cold
and ill-dressed for weather,
she will find her way
from the map that Age has lent her.

She will endure.

 ~~~~~

(Dresses featured are from Miamai. To keep my already long story posts from being painfully longer, full credit details are in the comment section below, or you can find credits to specific pictures on my Flickr Page. A directory of SLurls can be found here.)