PASSIONATE PRETENSE
Her throat, no longer perfect, but still white,
Invokes the crimson from the sunset glow,
As she awaits the dark - to taste, to know
Carnality incarnate in the night.
The sun's suffusion stains her skin to pink
With its last russet bloom, as if she were
A blushing maiden, innocent and pure,
On satin sheets where white and scarlet link.
What has her throat to do with being white?
Like thorn and petals torn they two entwine,
But not as lovers do -- instead, to dine
In sweet engagement of an ancient rite.
Her white throat is a passionate pretense
That now, twice pierced, belies her innocence.
My goodness this is good!
ReplyDeleteGosh, thanks!
DeleteI suspect Nosferatu is at play here.Clever write.
ReplyDeleteThis sucks in the best of ways... very good if you're a hungry count from Transylvania
ReplyDeleteOh my, the night definitely bites. :)
ReplyDeleteThoughts of crucifixes, holy water and garlic with wolves howling in the background come to mind:)
ReplyDeleteDark, dark...that white throat.. and eerie!
ReplyDeleteI love a good vampire poem or tale!
ReplyDeleteOh, I'm having all sorts of Carmilla thoughts. Love the progression, the way the subject changes inside, while remaining the same outside (almost).
ReplyDelete