Sunday, February 17, 2019

The Vampiress

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    Estimated reading time — 2 minutes

    The first account – it was in a warm September
    A month still haunted by the saddening winter.
    If well I remember, the winds still lashed
    The village where, upon dusk, dogs barked
    The place where, until dawn, no soul wandered.
    That dame, I first saw her in a mere instant
    When I uttered, abruptly, my fearful shout of horror:
    Blue the irises of the visage whose lips in scarlet
    Bled my own bare neck in a silent hot ardour.

    The nights gelid were born with that silhouette
    Only the naïve moonlight touched the parapet
    When under the Victorian garb came that brunette.
    It was a beautiful cadaver, of a hair so flourished
    Of a woman whose beautiful face, though dead,
    Whose vibrant death, almost plainly alive,
    On my pulsing blood relentlessly fed.

    The last night – it was a pure October of warmth.
    Cloudy was my gaze, bohemian of those cold lips
    That anaemic turned my heart that burned – of love.
    And so the last kiss my lips profoundly touched
    And she did not bring death – distinct was my fate.
    The death, so vivid, came as a cursed blessing
    Which I have, my dead God, accepted so straight.

    Ever since then, damned and accursed I observe
    The fine thread of the sin which is life post-death.
    Even if from the shallow graves, quiet and inert
    We surge – us both – after each passing sunset
    And even if then death equally us embrace
    If our diseased life only lives after twilight
    Each October to the village we return for more.
    Life more than enough to keep the flesh alive
    And death always dead, but that dies no more.

    Credit: Fernando N.

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