In the dead of night,
A night that was alive,
With nocturnal animals,
Possums and Racoons,
Foxes and Coyotes,
Bats and Owls,
Night was not dead,
But maybe she was,
In a way that people like her
Were portrayed in fiction.
As a Vampire she was supposed to be
Tuned into horror,
And poetry,
But when she attempted to
Pen a poem so full of
Fear that comes deep within the soul,
Lurking shadows,
Demons with poisoned claws,
And teeth so shape,
That they will tear out the throat
Of the man she loves
Right before her eyes.
Then she imagines arms that turn to jelly
Then as she watches them,
Go down the drain,
Or are lapped up by her dog
As she stands there watching
With no arms,
Until a hawk flies down
And plucks out her eyes
So she can no longer see
Anything.
Or she is making love
And the man she loves,
A cold handsome
Wonderful Vampire
Who has her cold unbeating heart,
Fluttering,
Then as she opens her eyes,
She finds herself
Underneath a beast, or a politician, a festering ghoul, or an alien,
Or a televangelist, or someone she
Can only despise,
And she can’t get away,
But she manages to grab a knife off of
The nightstand
And cut his throat.
But instead of blood,
Beetles and maggots come out of his throat,
And she still can’t get him off of her,
No matter how she pushes at him,
As the bugs craw all over her.
It is hard to write horror
As she sits with a purring cat
Batting at the
Computer keys,
And a warm dog sits on her feet,
And the frogs sing their love songs
In the cool spring night.
Not all Vampires thrive
On the frightful
And devious
Happenings
Of horror stories.
Sometimes you just need
To chill and appreciate
The beauty and calm
Of the night.
~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman
Vampire Maman 