Turned when she was seven,
She knew naught but death and bones,
Brought up by nothing but the road,
A road of gravelled stones.
Childish in appearance,
Yet reeked of blood and gore,
Luring in with toothy grins,
Feeding, then some more.
A nightmare in her own right,
The vampire child of myth,
Something yet unrivalled then,
And to be reckoned with.
So, if you see the little shape,
Moving through the mist,
A tiny child, you think you'll help,
She may be vampire kissed.
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