In the dark castle, shadows dance,
whispering tales of iron spikes,
the earth drinks deep from crimson,
the flesh sings soft beneath his gaze.
Every dinner a gristly tableau,
bodies elevated in grotesque poise,
laughter mingling with the wind,
the scent of iron like a feast.
He dips his bread into the crimson,
a communion of sorrow and power,
tasting the fear of his fallen foes,
their last breaths linger like incense.
The night swallows the truth whole,
each scream a note in his symphony,
draped in silence, he reigns supreme,
a sovereign of shadows, devouring light.
Every bite is a prayer, a curse,
remnants of lives discarded carelessly,
an echo of vengeance, the throne stained,
where mercy bends, and flies congregate.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: November 15th, 2024 11:29
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
Absolutely love this. As a fan of both history and Bram Stoker, you had me from Vlad! An excellent write! 🌹👏🖤❤️🖤
Thank You Tristan for sharing your generous feedback on my poem. I appreciate you taking time to read and comment on my work.
You are welcome. I was my pleasure.
Dark and haunted in a sense. Some great lines in this poem. "The earth drinks deep from crimson" I would like to know how much of the view of him was just bad press.
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