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She glided out of the swirling fog,

with crimped cream hair all flowing.

And her smile was bright,

and her light blue eyes,

shone glittering and glowing.

And as she stood there,

by the start of the square,

I could see that she was a spectre.

Still I thought, all aware,

“here’s the answer to my prayer,

yes I’ll folllow you now where you beckon”.



I’d been tired, so tired,

as I’d trudged through the mire,

yoked to the whims of my father.

That ageing sick leech,

pouting petulant fop -

whose vibe was “Be tough like your mother!”

Whose out-flitting shade, as he swooned on his couch,

would watch me wherever I’d wander;

while in secret I’d dream, of sick-nursing a wife,

who’d sweetly share with me her pander.



Once drained of my blood,

in that pitch-black graveyard,

she’d quickly taught me how to hustle:

I’d beguile a young belle, of some

ancient rich pile,

and soon as her house guest would settle.

Then as her best friend, I’d enjoy with few ends,

all luxuries, comforts she’d offer.

When she sickened and died, I’d be there at her side,

then like mist would be gone by the morning.



I’d been tired, so tired,

as I’d trudged through the mire,

yoked to the whims of my father.

But, to my answer my prayers,

for relief of my cares,

I got even more than desired.

For as well as my belles -

all mens’ draining me past -

through my days I’d sleep with my cream princess.

At her old churchyard lair,

I’d lie wrapped in her hair,

while in dreams we’d be rapturous lovers.



Some said I was wrong -

I eventually found -

now at the start I didn’t think so.

It had been so routine,

for my father to live,

all his life off prosperous people.

He’d controlled, with his great,

psychic powers prowess.

In what ways did I act to differ?

Sick women sick men,

I’ve loved both without end.

In my changed state I’ve found lots of pleasure.



Now, maiden, right there,

walking into this square -

humming along to your i-pod.

Your clothes look so strange,

but I see that your heart,

holds all of the yearnings that I got.

Come out of the light -

step into the fog -

that’s hovering now in this ginnel.

You’ll see, all aware,

I’m the answer to your prayers.

Die quickly so good things can happen.



I’d been tired, so tired,

as I’d trudged through the mire,

yoked to the whims of my father.

That ageing sick leech,

pouting petulant fop,

Whose vibe was “Be tough like your mother!”

Whose out-flitting shade,

as he swooned on his couch,

would watch me wherever I’d wander.

While in secret I’d dream,

of sick-nursing a wife,

who’d sweetly share with me her pander.

Her sick beauty’s lure gotten pander.

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COMMENTS

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NattyBatty
05:13 Oct 31 2016

This is so visual, descriptive and lovely!

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POST COMMENT

She trusted the night, : -

thought she was safe in her convent bedroom,

this school drenched in beauty,

of foliage, blooms and marine-soothed breezes.



She pushed back the velvet,

opened the pane, now screened just by pink gauzes,

then as cool relieved her,

she listened to the song woven into the darkness.



Blonde head on soft pillows,

she fancied she saw shadows move past her eyelids,

which sleep now had closed shut.

She trusted the night, for life only could be good.



Enchanted she saw him,

form from the moon's silver beams coruscations;

his glamor entranced her:

fantasies came of her perfect boyfriend.



When too late, she struggled.

His face – graceful pale – now blackened macabre

fangs snarls at her throat.

His weight so heavy, she couldn't move or breathe.



Like silk and spun sugar,

long swathes of her hair past her frills-strapped blue nightdress,

her Princess looks fading,

pallor where once was, peach bloom nubile contours.



A corpse in the darkness

in an '80s gown, white with cream ruffled lace yoke

above the fashions changing

its bright allure unceasing

blood trickling from its lips



Past the field besides the graveyard,

stares out from his sickbed,

a young man, gaunt and weary,

and he senses without sight,

the earth where she lies,

and he sees, though he's dreaming,



her drifting through the night;

her beauty in moonlight;

unafraid in his delight.

_____________________________

There was fog in the lane

before the dreams she next recalled

of flights through scarlet skies

a dazzling blonde man at her side



She woke in her bed

So weak she proved too faint to rise

then as that day fled

she swooned once more into the eyes



of that vision of grace

with Dresden curls, jabot of lace

who exuded freedom

as he stroked her hair with his haunting sweetness



They flew through the panes

above the treetops, to the nearest hamlet

where flooded by moonlight,

in frilled nightgown stood a wench by a window.



In rapture they ravished,

her spirit, form; her softness, secrets,

their empty souls' feedings;

shared as their cream hair, red hair mingled.



Now there's fog in the lane …

where she stands in her shroud with her chin stained crimson,

for sister, or brother,

or mother, or neighbour, or you.

I lie in my hair,

that's crinkly and cream,

and looks like the fleece of a sheep.

Fog at the window,

swirls through the dark,

while I'm pretending to sleep.

Wave round my wrists,

white ruffles so soft;

in the moon's beams shines sweet lace,

on the frilled yoke,

of my long white nightgown.

My heart's now starting to race.



Looms the full moon,

black clouds scudding past.

What are these shadows I see?

Tap tap tap tap, at the window -

what's that? - only the branch of a tree?

Out in the yard, our trusty dog howls.

I picture some scenes on TV,

I saw once, which showed,

in a far-away land,

a vampire dark horror story.



I've read spooky tales, seen vamp films galore;

I've recognised signs that I've seen;

Far through the woods,

where the old hall once stood,

I've sensed a wraith watching me.

The illness and death,

of a friend who'd had dreams -

all this once seemed fantasy.

I know now it's real,

as there steps from the dark,

a ghastly ghoul staring at me.



Lush long raven coils,

face lurid wax white,

dark eyes which piece right to my soul.

I try to move scream,

but I find I am froze,

as fear overwhelms spasms me.

Oh Mother oh Dad,

so near but so far!

God rest my soul which must flee!

It's breath on my neck,

when the moon glints upon,

the gold cross I wear to bless me.



A hideous scream!

A pane's shattered glass!

My parents and brothers rush in!

I cling to my mom,

My dad's looking out

into the dark of the trees.

Oh it's not a dream

These things they are real

Not just in weird Gothic tales.

If goodness exists,

then so does the dark,

this we now know, I now see.