Sunset
It is now,
as the last rays bid farewell,
a last touch of warmth
to the green, not-children of the dark,
that dead flesh stirs.

Animate, death-flesh
resisting the call of the dust,
the grave,
rises.


Still-heart hanging stagnant bladder of no-longer
Life's blood.
Morticed leather lids snapping open
with movement not of muscle,
but unholy power, bred of death and lust.


Dark child of brilliant darkness
crying.
Not with grief,
but with hunger.


Born again from dust and dusk.
Not of life, but oblivious death.
Blind eyes sharp with perception-no-longer-sight
eager to reap the harvest
of the departed sun.

 

Comments:
 
Mike Firesmith   Mike Firesmith wrote
on 4/23/2008 6:15:41 PM
If you say a Vempire poem sucks, is that a compliment? What if you say it bites? Wait! Bloody Good! That's the way to go here.

Sojourner   Sojourner wrote
on 4/23/2008 3:53:30 PM
You know...I don't like vampire poems that much, but if I did, it would be this one, as a matter of fact I think you've inspired me to write my own. -Joe

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Synopsis
Gods no! Not another vampire poem. Maybe an atypical one, though, in that it's not romantic.
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