Crisp was a winter midnight’s air.
Disturb the silence, no one dared.
The pain of frost taking our toes.
Our names and faces no one knows.
We see our gasps in the chill this night.
Walking silently through winter’s might.
We are the few but in large numbers.
The only awake while others slumber.
We ache with chill while others warm.
Soon enough, the ice will form,
On every lawn and every roof
While outside, you’ll find our truth
It is not poverty that keeps us cold.
We do not beg; we need no gold.
It is our desire, to taste of blood.
Albeit from those who sleep or who run.
That liquid metal is our darkest desire.
The warmth it brings, be stronger than fire.
Being of hell or hate, we are no such creature
We are only here to feast on Blood’s fever
You read this poem and ask yourself, “Oh dear God, who is ‘we’?”
Look in the closet, under covers, or out the window and you will see
Take haste, however, in doing such a task
For if we see you, you have bled your last.