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With the dark days,
I walk,
head dropped and collar up,
remaining in the shadows,
as the rifeness of disease rumbles,
a city already at the brink of a fall,
their wars futile,
their grudge petty,
yet more and more innocent fall,
if only they knew the price paid,
the askance of a life,
the soul it takes watching your own crawl,
on hands and knees in a pool of their own.
I stalk, unable to help,
unable to lend a hand,
for they will run, for sure,
at the sight of me,
my pallor, unmistakable red coursing through my eyes,
and from my shadows at night I watch,
their mortality fall so easily,
what I wouldn’t give for a death such as that,
or any death at all.
Decades have melted into centuries,
all my own gone,
either scared of me, or never knowing what I’ve become.
Now I keep to myself,
unsure how many more losses I can bare,
and in the shadows I linger,
unable to ask if I may step out,
into their precious light,
and help.

Until one night,
I see her,
and the forgotten desire rises,
I follow, enchanted and watch her step
into the safety of her home,
and from that night I linger
forever near that door.
I finally have a purpose,
a figure to revere,
in the gloom,
thus the shadows no longer haunt me,
but help as I guard a flower in hell.