By Michael R. Burch
Vampires are such fragile creatures;
we dread the dark, but the light destroys them …
sunlight, or a stake, or a cross—such common things.
Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings,
we shrink from his voice.
Centuries have taught us:
in shadows danger lurks for those who stray,
and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs
and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs.
He has no choice.
We are his prey, plump and fragrant,
and if we pray to avoid him, the more he prays to find us …
prays to some despotic hooded God
whose benediction is the humid blood
he lusts to taste