The true vampire need not drink blood.
He (or she), being an advanced lifeform,
could not be so literal, or so vulgar.
Rather, predator upon God's ultimate
creation, he must needs be the ultimate
predator.     What, then, have men
that is shared with no other?    Reason,
you say?      A soul, a self, sentience?
More or less.     And that is the vampire's
sustenance.     Oh, he is not displeased
with the image of rending fangs and
bloodied chin: tribute and camoflage
at once.        Rather, he is grateful,
in his unseemly dependence, that he is not sought
in his more regular professions:
social service, teaching, psychiatry, or
the arts.    He stays close to his garden, 
absorbing the stuff of life without
contamination.  For recreation, he
disgorges the excess on paper,
writing poetry.