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And the Wind Wept
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Gothic My rating for this poem: ***
(*-pure crap, **-Not so Great, ***-Farely decent, ****- Excellent, *****- Outstanding)
And the wind wept
And the wind howled his name
And the dirt beckoned his sorrow
The sky sought his tears
And the water parted.
Succubus and white magic, in the air
The wind cried to no extent, on the outstretched nights of yore.
In the shadow of his life, hung about like a pale cloak
His shadow taunted him, everywhere he walked
His shadow followed, mocking his hatred
His shadow wept, mourning his grim laughter.
And I looked up, and saw a pale horse… and the rider was death.
And it was finished, what was written.
Alas, none more than the shadows of the depths were plunged ominously into the mind of the miscreant… the wanton witch they called “death”.
And verily unto him, the sky called down…
Verily, the sky cried his name…
But alas, he did not hear.
For his ears, were deaf.
Deaf called the echo of his shadows.
Deaf cried the empty souls of his feet against the pavement.
Deaf wept the land.
And upon the pale horse, rode death, longingly distant.
Crimson clouds told the horrors of the land.
The blood ran freely.
Nosferatu was here.
And the wind wept to no extent, for the rider mounted again.
And deep into the heart of Romania, slept the demon.
His eyes darker than the coals of hell.
His lips paler than the moonlit night.
His heart colder than the wind that howled “mercy”.
A curse to the land, be it, never to die;
But alas, there are worse things than death.
Never dying, as the count crawled up the cobblestone
One more ferocious time, no more a danting task.
And the wind wept.
And I saw a pale horse, and the rider was death.
And the rider called out to me, and his breath was as empty as the hollow casket lay across the floor…
His voice cried “Nosferatu”.
And the wind wept.
All across Transylvania, the echoes were spurnfully heard,
Taking from moutianside to soothsayer…
“Count Dracula”.
Fangs to tear…
A mortal victim of the demon,
His blood now freshly spilled,
Soon another will be gone.
And there are worse things than death:
Eon upon eon feasting upon those mortal souls
Those immortal carcass left to decay across the dirt.
And the question.
Should he do it, cried the wind.
Dracula held the stake high.
He was morbidly ready to strike,
And strike himself down.
Should he do it, echoed his pale shadow,
As he held the splinter high above his own heart.
Should he do it, wept the skies above his head,
Looming vast depths of murky macabre unto the land.
Should he do it, cried his eyes… the eyes so piercingly innocent.
The eyes of a demon, yet the eyes of an innocent lamb before slaughter.
And the coals of the fire burned on, glooming.
And the pain in that child’s eyes as the steak hit.
The parchment tells of Dracula, no more.
And the wind wept.
And I saw a pale horse, it’s rider was death.
Upon the riders lifeless lips held the message.
Nosferatu was no more.
And the sands of time forever swallowed up the castle…
Into the depths, plunged the cobblestone floor,
As did the blood of the demon child.
Into the depths forever sank the demon child.
The innocent spurned from hell, no more a reign of evil shall be had.
Into the depths eternally, and rest, for worse things than death.
And the wind wept one last tear.
