by Oliver Smith
Where have all the vampires gone?
Banished from their natural home —
among the graves
and grand ballrooms
in castles built of stone.
No longer do they haunt
the cemetery,
the catacomb,
the mouldering marble tomb,
Nor stalk about the misty grove
in the light
of the morbid moon.
Where have all the vampires gone?
The lord of shadow all in black,
the beauty in her golden robe
upon her golden throne,
or the dried-up ancient thing
in its mouldy winding sheet,
that shrieked
and gnashed its pointed teeth
as it crawled
across the blasted heath
to gnaw upon old bones.
Where have all the vampires gone?
I asked her as we walked.
She drew about her pale arms,
a long black cloak of silk.
She smiled at me
with a mouth so red
and stars glistened on her lips.
She touched me with her icy hand
and she led me to her bed,
where in her loving arms I lay
upon the finest, whitest silk
under six cold feet of clay.
My poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Liminality, and Penumbric. I was awarded first place in the BSFS 2019 competition for his poem “Better Living through Witchcraft” and my poem”Lost Palace, Lighted Tracks” was nominated for the 2020 Pushcart Prize. My website is oliversimonsmithwriter.wordpress.com.
