Brooding man in life’s sweet dance,

Leaving life to the luxury of chance.

Tracing his steps in a savage waltz.

Informing no-one of his faults.


Holding his heart like a hot potato.

Caring not for the virtues of Plato.

Believing in miracles, he has no right.

His angels have long since taken flight.


Entrancing with sorrow. Killing with pain.

Shall I tell you once again?

Blood of life his absinthe, his whiskey,

To stand too close, would be far too risky.


You see, he had a human soul.

Which paid the highest, evil toll.

The devil rode to take him gladly.

Left him reeling… dying madly…


For the crimson elixir in our veins,

The essence of life that leaves a stain –

Upon his cheek, down his shirt.

It was never meant to truly hurt.


Be still you beating, frightened heart.

He exists in minds – in the blackest art.

On the page alone, he comes alive.

Through Stoker and Rice, he will survive.


© The Secret Poetess, January 2017.