My Life Made All Of Blood

My life made all of blood, I drink, I savour the taste, I daub my skin in red, I paint the walls, I draw from the hot vain, I stroke the surface and the ripples of the pool and I am now child-like as I gorge and grow strong once more. Strong enough to walk the light and not burn. Strong enough to be murdered and destroyed, yet still live this living death.

                                The new-born will no longer satisfy. I must slay and drink from the height of strength and youthful pride. I must prey upon their finest while they slumber under the moon’s eye.

                                 They hunt in return. They search under the sun’s eye for my kin.  They are brave enough to descend to our underworld, where a thousand screams and sanguine meals paint every wall. The weakest of us would take men with him in that place. The strongest would choke the passages with corpses in thousands.

                                 They have their weapons: the icon of their god of light and his blessing that would be our bane. But our dark god has gifted us with eyes which ravage the veil of night, flesh upon which all wounds vanish as soon as dealt, and strength and speed… and beauty… that is beyond their farthest grasp.

                                  We are perfect. They should be our pets and slaves, we their lords and masters. But we are driven under their feet, under their laughable works of earth, by the flaming touch of their beloved sun and the countless millions of their race that would engulf our small band of blood-stained angels.

                                  But the greatest humiliation of all… we must place our lips upon their vile flesh, we must kiss them, as a lover, and drink down the taste of their blood. Our survival is thus eternally bound to the flow of their god’s providence. His giving of breath and life feeds the perfection of the night that He dared not forge himself… could not, He was so weak. And yet, it is after the blood of His creatures, who do not deserve to so much as look upon us, that we lust and are driven to fevered madness in pursuit of.

 

We are gods, and yet we must worship at the shrine of insects.