Vladimir

"Undead;" the term is apt. The creature
Breathes, but has no life within. He's up
There, in his gloomy castle, sleeping in
A coffin, it is rumored, maybe in a bed,
And flutters down into the square, as if
A bat, when it is dark. He wears a
Splendid woolen suit, and bows, and
Chivalrously speaks, as if, somehow,
His life had ended several centuries ago.
He circles every pretty girl, sniffs. He
Hopes to find a virgin. There aren't
Any here these days, but he'll take one
Who's close enough, and cloud her mind
With florid sonnets, buy her drinks, and
Fly her with his bat wings to his castle,
Where he'll drink her blood. At least,
That's what the rumors say, though, in
The morning, she'll appear without a mark
Upon her neck, and say she had a lovely
Time. The creature fed her, kissed her
Hand, and flew her back down to
The square. "I cannot live," he said
To her, "but you've kept me undead."



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2016-02-16 at 13:08

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