Septi's Poetry Page
The Vampire's Lament
The endless years go passing by,
The ages witnessed by my eyes.
Ages marked by their scorching days,
And nights of my unholy craze.
There is no night I must not feed
Upon the life innocents bleed.
I hunt them like a vicious shark;
And bring them into endless dark.
No matter how much life I take,
My endless thirst it does not slake.
None of the souls on which I dine
Have a chance of restoring mine.
And ev'ry night I pray to die,
Yet, from the lethal sun I fly.
Fleeing as salvation appears;
Trapped in amber by my own fears.
Where now the comfort of the grave?
Where now the ovine blood that saves?
For God has turned his face away,
Though I asked not to be this way.
I ask no pity, none have I;
I've ignored ev'ry victims' cry.
Yet, when you've seen my cruelty,
If you have tears left, cry for me.
The Icarian Journey
The gentle Jebediah Morningside,
Almost alone among mankind,
Retained well beyond the days of his youth,
A restless and curious mind.
A naturalist and a scientist,
He studied all the world around,
Both the living creatures of land and sea,
And the dead buried in the ground.
As the years passed there came into his mind,
A rather peculiar yen:
To know the nature of mortality;
For all men died; What happened then?
By use of physics he built a device,
That used heat and cold, sound and light,
And vibration to create a passage,
Between life and death, day and night.
For forty days, and also forty nights,
He did not pass through this dread gate.
'Twas lack of knowledge and animal fear,
That wisely made him hesitate.
But, alas, his mind would not be denied,
And so he gathered his resolve,
To set out upon his dreadful journey,
In hopes of mysteries to solve.
His family and friends he left with regret;
His worldly wealth he merely spurned;
And he set out in search of knowledge, but,
Jebediah never returned.
The Rose
I never found love in the cold, gray rose.
It's peircing thorns gave me no hearts repose.
For though I watered, weeded, and tended,
The wounds it gave me have not yet mended.
And the cold, gray rose has a certain way
To scratch open my heart's wounds every day.
Never again shall I dare plant the seed
Of love I once found in a thornless weed.
Never again shall I dance, shall I fly;
Never again shall I look at the sky.
Love is such a harmless acquisition,
But the gray rose brooks no competition.
The rose killed my true love merely from spite,
Like a wretched theif sneaking in the night.
And how long did it's satisfaction stay,
When I perceived the corpse, so cold and gray?
And the cold, gray rose turned it's thorns at me,
To worsen the pain of my misery.
Never again shall I dare plant the seed
Of love I once found in a thornless weed.
Never again shall I dance, shall I fly;
Never again shall I look at the sky.
Love is such a harmless acquisition,
But the gray rose brooks no competition.
I hated the rose, I fed it with salt;
It grew all around me and wouldn't halt.
And it wouldn't leave me alone to greive;
And I cut myself on it's thorns and leaves.
While I struggled, it grew over my head;
And the skies above it were cold and dead.
And if I ever find another seed,
I shall grow another bright, thornless weed.
But I still won't dance, and I still won't fly;
And I'll turn my eyes from the rose-gray sky.
I'll plant my seed far from the rose's sight;
And it, and I, shall belong to the night.
Sativa
On the eastern shore of a lake,
Far beneath the ferocious drake,
There dwelt some men, or so they say'
With hearts of fire, and minds of clay.
And with limbs of the finest gold,
Striated with appalling mold.
And what lord do they serve,
Who has made them such slaves?
And what lord do they serve,
Who drags them to their graves?
They are forgotten, they are lost;
Their lives have very little cost.
Wealth beyond dreams, still not content;
For all they gain is poorly spent,
In the silencing of their screams
And the destruction of their dreams.
And what lord do they serve,
Who has made them such slaves?
And what lord do they serve,
Who drags them to their graves?
They drink the poisoned cup of Lethe,
Until their very dying breath.
Forget their lives, forget their shame,
In the end they forget their names.
Yet never quite forget their pain,
And sacrifice their souls in vain.
And what beast do they serve,
Who has made them such slaves?
And what beast do they serve,
Who drags them to their graves?
They heed not the cry of the crow,
Who devours all those who sink so low,
For they've no screams, nor any pain;
Their deaths no loss, their lives no gain.
They care not if they go or stay,
Only of Death, whom they obey.