The years passed along,
slowly, but surely crawled by,
and the immortals
continued their lives.
The darkness claimed their dear souls
as they sank into it.
Unable to think
of redemption from the curse
they became placant.
Convinced of their fate
they ruled the mortals with fear
and hatred blossomed
like a spring flower,
filling their whole existence.
They questioned themselves,
for what does sin mean,
when its your very nature,
an unchanging fact?
You kill for your food,
you feed on the unholy.
Evil fed on them.
That which made them man
trickled away like lifeblood-
compassion, mercy,
loving-kindness, faith.
Their souls became as their flesh-
cold, dead, frozen.
They yearned for something,
to feel human once again-
to feel anything.
Unable to die,
possessed of a half a life,
they cursed their maker
til anger faded
as despair shrouded their sight
and hatred was dulled.
How the years crawled by,
how quickly does dischord spread
among the undead.
They sought love in flesh;
new life unattainable
through normal methods,
even this lost charm,
in became vain and empty,
a passing pleasure.
How fleeting is lust,
how meaningless is pleasure
with its purpose lost.
An escape was sought
in drink- intoxication.
This- impossible,
when the deadened flesh
can feel none of the poison
imbibed as liquors.
There is no torment,
no torture, no power of dark,
no hell on this earth
quite like that they lived.
As generations passed on
and villages grew,
becoming cities
which then became nation states,
powers united
with other such towns,
the fortress sat unchanging,
claimed by deep despair.
Poisoned by the curse
which grew stronger as time passed,
with no redemption.
And the immortals
continued their lives.