The following poem is dedicated to all those who love fantasy and fear the dark. May you find joy and excitement in these verses. They are for you and all imaginative folk.
“The Vampire” By John C Evans
Past the churchyard’s dreary lot,
Where the sad monks chant their liturgical refrain-
Under the gilded bands of a brandished cross,
Fixed atop a steeple’s soring span-
I dream of you,
And sigh.
Mountains of ash.
Rivers of tears.
Hours of soft rain,
Clearer than the drunkard’s upraised glass,
All conspire to upbraid me,
For the guilt my rash words proffered.
Believe me child,
When I say,
I did not mean to cast you hence,
Like a nave amongst ravening wolves,
Eager for some grotesque parting.
Poor son-
Heir of my heart’s loathing-
Blood is not my heart’s aim.
Only the nourishment,
Its nectar breeds.
O how did we come to this?
How could I,
Above all men,
Stoop to such a Faustian promise?
A pact with devils warrants death.
But still I wander on,
Cold and breathless,
Beloved by none-
Being a creature of stealth,
And brooding hatred.
The curse of Cane,
Stains my lips,
And dyes these hands,
The color of candid war.
To think I once was a prince of battles-
TO think I once was a lord amongst living men,
Is scarcely more,
Than I can bear.
Armies would flock to my standard.
Women would weep at my feet.
New-born babes would not shirk from my greeting.
I was a chieftain then-
I was certainly no monster.
Yet now,
That I am banished,
From heaven’s throne,
And the grave’s matchless peace,
I am a stranger here,
Amidst my own kindred,
Despite the price,
I paid to set them free.
Tell me wayfarer from distant lands,
Who shattered the Turk’s army?
When the Pope called upon his children to act,
Who defended this teetering country?
I Vladimir,
The Dragon’s son,
Spilt their entrails,
And bad them run.
I Dracula,
Watched them burn,
Convinced someday,
Their souls would learn,
The meaning of repentance,
And God’s just rage.
How wrong I was,
To deem myself a sage.
Alas!
Thirty pieces of silver,
Might have been enough,
For Judas to betray,
His lord and savior.
A seat before the panoply,
Of Xerxy’s host,
Might have been enough,
For Efaltes to condemn his Spartan friends to slaughter.
But all it took,
For me to fall,
Was a Zealot’s rashness,
And the love for one woman-
My dear Elezabeta-
My darling wife.
What was it like,
To read the false news,
Those villainous bastards,
Presented you?
What was it like,
To hurl yourself down,
And greet the roaring waters,
Of fate’s thundering deluge?
In my waking dreams I see you,
Pitched in the blue serf below our stern castle,
Like a fragile white moth,
Crushed beneath sorrow’s shimmering weal.
I can still taste the ice-like stillness of your lips,
And the way your blank eyes gaped blindly up at me,
As though you had already seen,
The walking horror I would become.
When they laid you beneath the alter,
And dressed you in your frail gray shroud,
I was certain there was no hope-
I was certain all joy had left my crumpled world.
The map of my soul had been rent asunder,
And torn into fragments which could never be assembled again.
The countless years would reduce your bones to dust.
But there was no respite for me-
There was no Solis-
The word of Jove had failed me,
And cast my heart in seething fire.
A voice from the bowels of my secret mind seemed to say-
“Repent.
For thy hour draweth near,
And the demon’s shadow hath overtaken thee.
Repent!
Lest the nightmare claim thyne own soul,
And condemn thee to everlasting doom.”
But refusing to fear the matchless dark,
And believing my old faith to be the source of Elizabeta’s woe,
I pricked a tender vane in my hand,
And pledged myself to the lord of night,
Whose grim likeness is known to most honest men.
He didn’t tell me about the fangs.
Lucifer seldom talks.
He just listens.
Perhaps that’s why she decided to leap.
Perhaps that’s why I decided to fall also.
The brink doesn’t look so bad from a distance.
But when you take that step-
That last pivotal,
Non-Refundable step,
You can’t turn your back any longer.
Fate demands a response,
And no man,
Born of truth,
Can fly from fate’s black calling.
Thou Marlowe,
Knew this best.
Thy fare warning,
Scolded the rest,
Of my pitiless folly.
Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris,
Misery loves company.
Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris,
Misery loves company.
A footnote-
Patria Mori,
Crossing the river in the sleet and snow,
A coffin is lowered into the smothering row,
Of gorges that line the gray hill’s side.
Between the sea and the land,
There is nowhere to hide,
From the formless shadow.
I am-
I am-
We were-
She was-
Infinite.
I can read the Danube.
There are bodies beneath the ice.
If you dig deep enough,
You will find them.
Believe me Carpenter’s son,
You must never stop digging,
For the dragon’s root.
The ninth seal has not yet been broken,
And the twelfth is still to come.
But after me,
You will know,
The lyre’s kiss,
And the mad prophetess’s deluge.
Adieu sweet Sibyl.
Adieu brave sister.
Adieu aged seer.
Adieu good friend.
Twas thou who first wrought me.
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