The Count
The setting sun is his delight
For he is a creature of the night
He lusts for blood; all types are right
Then he'll take that infamous bite
The night is his, the day his foe
As dawn breaks, to his coffin he must go
There he'll sleep until the night returns
Once again for blood he'll yearn
To lure his victims, his charm must be paramount
Upon him is bestowed the title of Count
The Count is many centuries old
It seems his blood never runs cold
The women love him for his charm
He uses it to disarm
If they only knew what was at "stake"
When to their necks a move he makes
1-5-2026
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
