She is cursed to always crave
master to the slave
bloodstone to the master
cradle to the grave
He guards his wicked treasure
twilight to the dawn
with a selfishness so absolute
sharing with no one.
A drop or two won’t satiate
It leaves her empty, unfulfilled
left to wonder moonlit fields
barren plains of a love gone wrong
a mere shadow of feelings, once so strong
desiring attention of a certain kind
left to search but never find.
A price to pay – a guide to take her there
to his warmth
his wild lair.
The path is tangled, craggy and steep;
the mountains are high and the rivers deep.
Frigid winds carry snow that blinds her eyes
still, she senses reward, fortune, her prize.
It is with a relief so pure, so humble, so sweet
when he is awakened from his sleep
and then he gives her what she craves:
Bloodstone to the master
cradle to the grave.
You fill my cup…
forever your slave.