Napkins: Rare Poetry and Prose Archives, 1995-2004 by Steve Dustcircle - HTML preview

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The Welcomed Stranger (via 2003)

 

Up three floors, absent of a balcony

She stands in nightgown, arms outstretched

Absorbing the night, only half asleep

Awaiting for the welcomed stranger she met

 

Abruptly he arrived just last night

Past the locked window and before her bed

Fear awoke her, visited, and rapidly he left

She had become infatuated with the undead

 

He, or it, dressed in holy black evil

Yet full beauty he was, expression desolate

Her veins pulsated, begging to be pricked

His eyes dark, vulnerable not, but insulate

 

Her thoughts interrupted, the wind whistles

Singing their songs through scarecrow trees

A flood of random bats blocks out the moon

Fatigued, she involuntarily drops to her knees

 

Then the welcomed stranger's present

All love and terror that of folklore stories

In confidence, he's intimately close

Mysteriously powerful in his loathsome glory

 

Magnetically pulled together, all else blurred

Bodies entwined, they rise up high together

Twirling in passion, a distant wave of a choir

Something about his canines caused her to wet her

 

Suddenly his eyes of love flashed red

And locked into hers for her submission

She nodded without a word or an utter

His teeth responded to her permission

 

Deep, teeth sink themselves into her neck

So delicate, without pain, she quivered

Did her soul depart or did one enter

She, bewildered, then chilled and shivered

 

Limp as a rug, she collapsed, folding in his arms

He laid this mere child onto her bed

Wiping his lips clean of crimson blood

He stood alone, adoring the new one bred