Sing to me the old ways. Sing to me a song you used to know. Sing to me the forgotten, revenant melody and send it echoing across dark alleyways, under bridges, into sewer tunnels. It is a sentinel, a flag - tattered remnant of human life - that flutters and flaps in the night wind. It beckons, traces the earlobe, caresses the throat with icy fingertips. A siren croon that lulls toward an inevitable ending.
A new song begins. Bloodsong. The pounding, striving heart of captured prey. The rhythm that arches and aches, clutching the life between each beat. A rhythm ebbing, then somnolent, crushingly brief. The surprise decay, the astonished last gasp of fading night.
The finality of shoe heels on pavement. The finality of silence. The finality of the coming light.
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