It starts off with the gentlest embrace
And you, in search of shelter, welcome how
He offers your scorched heart a shady bough
And takes your hand with all a host’s good grace.
You learn to not look closely at his face
(And you’re no oil painting, anyhow);
Your home seems very distant now, somehow,
And time can lose its meaning in this place.
When you return, your friends say that you’ve changed:
Diminished, flushing, apt to drift away.
You find yourself unsure of what to say,
So offer them his grace in sweet exchange.
They’ll learn the hard way: better to play dead
Than be consumed by soft-mouthed figureheads.
|A yara-ma-yha-who – here shown with hair, for some reason. Please note for your own safety: unlike most vampiric myths, the yara-ma-yha-who hunts in the daytime, when you’re seeking shade...|