Rosamicula (rosamicula) wrote,
Rosamicula
rosamicula

Haunty Hallowe'en!

I am very much a prose person. I can't write poetry, unlike poliphilo. But I can do doggerel and had a passion in my teens for writing in rhyme, including a whole panto script, strangely. Here is something that I wrote in my morbid sixth form days when Interview with a Vampire was a significant influence.



Midnight: the Vampire’s eyes
Coldshining black as blood
Close as the tolling bell calls
Calls for the weak and the good.
He sees through the thickening darkness
Her breath stain the chilling air.
The beats of his heart pace her progress
As she crosses the snow-covered square.

She is drawn by the brightness pouring
From the cathedral’s ancient portal,
And it pains him to watch her pass by him
For he longs for the blood of a mortal.
Yet...
she pauses a while at the threshold
And looks out into the bitter night.
Compelled by the shadowless figure
Her feet turn away from the light.

Mingled with holy incense
He tastes the perfume of her skin
As she draws ever closer to him
His mouth waters; he savours his sin.
His gaze does not falter from her,
The slim neck and the sway of her hips,
The tender pulse in her soft breast
And the sweet breath of life from her lips.

With his eyes so dark and despairing
Draining the strength from her soul,
The rosary slips from her fingers;
She must answer the vampire’s call.
The tombcold touch of his fingers
As he uncovers her auburn tresses
Awakens her flesh to the knowledge
Of his fatal, exquisite caresses.

When his arms reach out to enfold her
She thrills to his satanic embrace
But her mouth blooms into a scream
When she raises her eyes to his face -
When she sees the savage fangs
Bear down to silence her cry with a kiss.
Then her body grows still, unresisting
For she tastes of oblivion’s bliss.

Ghostly his face in the moonlight,
Ghastly the light in his eyes,
Her ears are now deaf to the choir
She hears only his blood-drenched sighs.
She abandons the hope of her girlhood;
Dreams of crimson, not bridal white,
As she drowns in the profane pleasure
Of a demon’s embrace in the night.

At last he surrenders his mistress.
A sigh escapes him, sorrowing, low.
He lays her before the bright window,
A sacrifice staining the snow.
And the priest’s voice calls out ringing
As the vampire flees from his feast,
‘Let the one who hath full wisdom
Count the number of the beast.”
Tags: admittingtobeingagothbackwhenbeingagothw, goths, verse and worse
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