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Monsieur L'Vampyre and the Black Lady of Paris
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE & THE BLACK LADY OF PARIS Just south of Paris, lives the soul of me, at my chateau, where few will ever see, I'm compensated for the way death lingers on from day to day and makes each night a night of tragedy. All dark as hell, from trees that block the light so as to make the day deep as the night I'm free to come, and free to go, without the sun that hurts me so and this, my home, is hidden from all sight. Now I would never have you think my way is shunning life, and hiding from the day, and though I live a tragedy, it's quite the way I'd have life be, as all alone leads only to decay. One night I'd settled in for Poe and me, my candle lighting words my mind could see and authored by his morbid mind who knew his words were of my kind and as I turned my pages, what should be? All feminine, the hesitating sound of just a tapping, to the door it's found of fingers slim, but in distress or she'd be home, that was my guess, but still I raised myself to stand my ground. Anticipating what--I didn't know-- for what fair damsel knocked at my chateau? and so I grasped my deringer all cocked and ready, as it were, and set upon the path where I should go. The tapping grew to be quite indescrete and hurried, as if one about to meet a harsh and catastrophic end without the slightest hope or friend, and so I pulled the door, but braced my feet. December winds came freezing to my skin and lightning lit the winter nights' begin, an omen I supposed to be a blessing of the night for me, and so I welcomed her, and asked her in. She shed her wrap, one tatterred by the years but fondly placed it to my hands, in tears, and dark was she, as any night her skin so black, a bless-ed sight for beauty's in beholding what appears. There showed no blood, upon her neck for me, though not a mark was there that I could see, and questions raced all through my head if hers was warm, and damp, and red? Or did her blood flow black--how could that be? What brought her tears, once placed into the past, I set upon to make here smile at last, and asked her if she'd like to stay at my chateau, near Poitiers, and spend the night, for it was waining fast. Of all the beauty, ever to be here, in all my life, not one could come so near as when her cloth fell to her feet in candlelight, love made complete by flesh and blood, as dark as they appear. My mark was bit, and I could feel the flow of life that made my heart not want to know an end to this, a special night so red that flowed from just the bite, but dark as sin--I begged she never go! But overcome with joy of all she was my pounding heart gave in to what it does, and drank of her until she knew what never ending life can do and all that I can say, is just--because © ron wilson arbuthnot aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet.
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