With accursed blood in his veins,  
the sun scorns him,  
its light a sharp reminder of what he’ll never be,  
while shadows gather like old friends,  
whispering secrets of a world he can touch,  
but never join.  

The Master of the manor,  
holding chains that weigh down his thoughts,  
his heart’s every beat an echo of someone else’s desire,  
each pull a reminder,  
how chains can bind the spirit tighter  
than iron wraps the wrist.  

He hangs there, trembling,  
butchering the blood of dreams,  
milking it from broken veins,  
for the Master who fills his goblet  
with the echoes of lost hope,  
drinks deep, laughs loud,  
and never looks back.  

Does God glance down from His throne,  
considering the worth of a man  
whose blood sings of curses?  
Can salvation rise from pain and shame,  
or is he destined  
to walk this endless night alone?  

He wonders if the stars can see him,  
through the darkness he’s learned to call home,  
a soul caught between the lash and the love  
that never was his to claim.  
In this silence, heavy as chains,  
he searches for a spark—  
something, anything,  
that could break the curse  
and bring him,  
just once,  
to light.

(Note: So... here's my play on R.M. Renfield, where I blend the book and the movie somehow :D. Have fun! You guys know the drill, as usual, read the background.)