Count Dracula

far beneath the steeples of cobble stoned london, he moves without the parting of a shadows grace. from morning to morning he carries no longing. under the heavy hymns of the luthern organs he breaths amongst centuries of dead and thoughtful saints he can see thier forms in the darkened hour, their drawn out robes crested and wrinkled. the emblems of holy words dust covered and faded. now once again he must part the letters in tombs of mortered regret. resurrection of the coffin figure to wander and speak to whom he may, walking through herb gardens, carried by tombstone... gravestone october winds. which blow hollowly causing his morbid child to flee all those memories of her. now he must refrain from the glow of the brass lanterns and pale jugulars his clavicle redemption. as through the arterial streets of london the bloodless form of his opaque continence mourns and is drained of all mineral colums.