For A Vampire

There is a soul born of the swamp — heavy with humidity, veiled in cypress shade, its breath perfumed with decay and jasmine. Its feet are sunk deep into the dark waters of Louisiana, where roots twist like serpents and ghosts hum low songs beneath the surface, where the cypress communicate. The air itself feels ancient here, thick with memory, with love lost and reborn through centuries. It is a place where death feeds life, where everything rots into beauty. And this soul, old and restless, has learned to drink from that decay — to savor the ache of existence like a vampire sips eternity from a lover who must perish. 

But its heart… its heart beats for the desert. For the dry kiss of wind on cracked lips. For the holy silence where bones bleach beneath a sun too cruel for lies. It dreams of sand and stone, of mesas that glow blood-red at dusk, of moons so bright they could cut through the body and show the soul inside. The desert calls like a mirage — a place of purification, ascension, hunger.

And yet, there is a tether. The swamp refuses to release what it has claimed. It murmurs in the night: You are mine. You were made of shadow and moss and mourning. Still, the soul looks westward, yearning for a land that burns away the softness, a place where love becomes feral — sun-scorched, eternal, and raw.

So it wanders between worlds: half ghost, half pilgrim. A creature of water dreaming of fire. A vampire seeking not blood, but balance — to love both the damp rot of the earth and the holy blaze of the sun.

In that longing lies the true spell: the swamp and the desert are lovers in its body. Moisture and dust, darkness and light, decay and resurrection. Every heartbeat is a gospel to both — a love song whispered across thousands of miles of land and time.