Poetry - The Curse by Rhys Pearce

The Curse

When I was young, I was bitten

by strangers who saw me at nights.

And now that I’m grown, I am smitten

with furthering the bloodline of bites.

I don’t need to pass down my own genes

to continue the bloodline at night.

I just need to have access to bad dreams;

it helps to believe it`s alright.

And as the moon’s turning,

I should be still, learning,

but it`s something that I can`t avoid.

It`s never concerning

the people they`re burning

as long as the species’ destroyed.

For there are things I do against my will,

and my will does things against me.

And there are people who just think I’m ill

and I would agree, conversely.

Yet some would persist

we`re just creatures of myth;

but the people they say don`t exist,

are clearer than day

when they`re hunting their prey,

the hard part’s discerning the mix.

And I know it`s not right

it`s not a choice that I’ve made:

rather, it is a choice that made me.

Though I can`t contain it,

I`ve learned to restrain it,

as long as I’m still paid my fee.

And though the times change,

the tales remain;

I cut my tail clean off in bars.

This is how it ends,

sterling unmakes;

not put in bullets, in bars.

To end, in a sense,

the word “innocence”

is slowly destroying my soul;

for it can be taken,

but it can`t be given,

and I have become a black hole.

And I hope the lines break

for the small part that aches:

A small person in worlds now departed,

but all so unsmartly,

bloodlines impart me

with the only thing keeping me started.