Flying as silent as slow moving clouds,

She landed then altered her form,

A sensual woman dressed in scarlet and black,

Would wander these streets till the morn,

Then out in the distance a fellow approached,

And asked her if she was alright,

He offered his service as consul and friend,

On such a dark, cold, foggy night,

She accepted his offer, and as they walked along,

She acted as though she would swoon,

She knew she must feast before the rise of the sun,

As they walked by the pale of the moon,

In a doorway they lingered, she looked into his eyes,

If he did the same he’d be lost,

She opened his shirt, preparing to feast,

But recoils at the sight of a cross,

He sees her reaction, and senses her fear,

Feels how her body goes cold,

Looks down at the face, that was sensual and young,

Only now it is wrinkled and old,

With lips stretching backwards over sharp pointed fangs,

She lunges at his jugular vein,

Her wrinkled flesh meeting the bright shinny cross,

Once more she recoils at the pain,

In cold blinding panic, he turns and he flees,

It’s that or he knows he will die,

His ancient pursuer will make better time,

For the demon behind him can fly,

In his fear and his panic, he stumbles and falls,

Over an old rotting crate,

Grasping a long pointed sliver of wood,

That’s perfect to use as a stake,

In the air she was silent and graceful,

The air and her body are one,

But an infusion of blood she was needing,

Before the moon gave it’s place to the sun.

As she circled she saw where he’s hiding,

In a door by an old bakers cart,

With fangs bared she flew in for action,

Until the sharp wooden stake pierced her heart,

He’d stood with his arms out and waiting,

His only defence was the stake,

He prayed that the demon won’t see it,

At least until it was too late,

His prayer had been heard and was answered,

She’d flown into the stake in his hand,

Screaming the cry of the banshee,

For things had not gone the way she had planned,

Now with her blood pumping from her,

And afraid of the prospect of death,

After two thousand years as a vampire,

Just a small pile of powder was left,

As the wind took the fine powder skyward,

The fellow was heard to remark,

That’s the last time I help a young lady,

On a cold, foggy night in the dark,

Then the fellow afraid but uninjured,

Clutched at the cross at his neck,

Thanking the lord that had saved him,

From the vampire he’d tried to protect,

Then he went on his way keeping silent,

For who would believe such a tale,

They’d lock him away as a madman,

Or believe that he’d drank to much ale,

So he grew old and went to his maker,

With his secret still safe in his head,

Glad in the end he was dying,

And not living like her, the undead,

By S.E.Ralph..

1-5-2002