In a cold and desolate moonlit chest
A pale gray body lays at rest.
His eyes glazed over, rolled back in his head,
His heart is stopped, his body dead.
Blood does not flow through his veins,
His body cold, immune to pains.
Bare white fangs sit in his head,
The signature mark of the undead.
Undead strength clenches a clawed fist,
His anger flares at years he missed.
He attempts to flee his silver coffin,
But pauses when he finds he’s locked in.
With one strong arm, the lid he smashes.
With anger at the world, he lashes.
Slaughtering victims, vengeance he needs.
His call, his undead minions heed.
He finds his enemy heavily guarded, an army at his side.
He makes an army of his own, his time he does bide.
A vampire legion he does make,
Drawing souls from the fiery lake.
Great battles rage, vampires prove stronger,
Able to fight the battle longer.
Fallen soldiers hit the ground,
Their slaughtered bodies strewn around.
At his wounded enemy he stares,
With malice and hatred he glares.
He glories at his foes pain,
This cruel vampire, his name is Kain.
