They Call Him Vampire...
Like many things that move through the night,
The tales are taller than long shadows,
The truth is the iceberg below the surface,
And the mystery is a sought-after whisper of fantasy and dreams,
Never to be truly known.
Its said he is ancient,
This I believe.
By some freak of nature,
Some deeply-twisted whim of fate,
He never ages,
Not even a speck of grey or the smallest wrinkle.
Can you fathom what that must mean,
The cold curse it must be?
You and I lament about "never going home,"
That refuge of childhood and youth,
Yet imagine seeing it by daylight a thousand years from now,
Every sign of its existence crumbled,
Dust and built or grown over.
Could you bear to walk in the sun?
Perhaps his talk of blood flows from a time when that was all most had to give,
A time when there were no zippers,
All was buttons and ties,
And sewing needles were made of stone or bone.
To hail from an era where clocks did not exist is t be timeless,
Ruled all by Sun and Moon.
There was a time long ago when a lack of manners was cause for blood to spill,
Is it any wonder his are impeccable?
Perhaps his love died one night in a kitchen,
Red-rose blood flowing in among bits and cloves of half-minced garlic,
Solver necklace hewn from her lifeless body,
A stake driven through her heart by a jilted Von Helsing,
In an era where romance was the only true coin of life.
There are many reasons to hide in the mists of the night,
And he has lived them all.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/15/2019