Vlad Draculea III to a Child

Your eyes are coals in a dying flame,
flickering sun that resides in the weak.
But child, don't look at me that way.
No, you are not at all to blame
for a mother's past wrong
despite you being her shame.
Merely, you are at the wrong place at the wrong time.
And I am the vindicator, if you will,
for "son of demon" is my name.
Like you, child, I am evil's offspring.
Devils must punish the wicked in Hell,
so on mortal Earth, the vile I impale.

Look, child, how your mother squirms
like Christ upon that tree shackled by those nails.
Is she not angelic, veiled in that scarlet?
She is like an apple, a human turned inside out.
I'll leave only her skin to rot.

You noticed my golden goblet?
It's not Nestor's giant cup,
but I assure you, my drink's better.
For that Greek had his watered wine,
and my cup's full of a stronger brine—
that crimson nectar that goes down so naturally,
into the inside just where it should be.

Your white innocence is a darkened burgundy,
you who have never known the world.
I have saved you from a life full of threats
from men who do not tolerate the race of child you are.
You would grow old, never to know your father,
never to know the pleasures of mortal Earth,
as you constantly pondered the meaning of your birth.

Now, child, I shall stay with my avaricious thirst
and from the nectar of your bodies, my desire will be nursed.