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  Below, I have begun to add some
 more of my Dracula series of poems for 
your enjoyment. Feel free to partake of the
 eldrich world of the dark Count...

 
  • In The Castles' Shadow People Of The Cross The Confrontation Dark Release The Accursed Hunt
  • In The Castle's Shadow A village lies in silence, Oppression near at hand. Black darkness and foreboding, In that black castle's land. Owned by one Count Dracula, The fortress looms above. The death of hope and freedom, Quenching the gift of love. The people of this village Are wrapped in constant fear, Victims of the great dark Count Who dwells so very near. In that black castles' shadow Despair is each days' rule, As peasants are subjected To hunger heartless, cruel. Held fast within this hamlet By his relentless will, Their loved ones are his fodder, He'll nightly drink hi fill. "Oh, for unseen salvation To save us from this plight!" Is their unfulfilled hearts' cry, Who live in constant night.

    People Of The Cross

    Candle light illuminates Four faces Spare and bleak. Steel resolve shines in their eyes. "Kill undeath", This they seek. Thus their mission while they live: Find cursed, Take and slay. Searching not in the time of night, But hunting in the day. They've walked the land with crosses, Warding off Unclean hands And teeth of razor sharpness, Traveled through Many lands. They're in the Castles' shadow, Biding time, Gaining strength. Until they feel quite ready To face Him At long length. Dracula, the evil one, Fearsome, dark, Dire and black. Soon the time will be at hand When they'll rise To attack. Candle-light Illuminates Four faces Spare and bleak. People of the cross the are. "Kill undeath", This they seek. The Confrontation Amid this mountained land A hamlet greets the dawn, The promised fateful day Which hopes are pinned upon. Although the sun has come, Cold fog still roams the streets. In furtiveness it moves Like some pale unclean beast. The portent scene unfolds In Eighteen Seventy Nine, Where frightened townsmen wait And evil, calm, reclines. A confrontation comes Requiring bravery From three within a shack. Will they stand fast or flee? Inside the shack they wait, The People Of The Cross. They're three in number here, Prepared to suffer loss. Moving in readiness Each member dons a pack Filled with strange implements To wage a bold attack. Above, the Castle waits, A looming darkened spire. The dreaded Count's abode. They're chilled before the fire. Prepared as they can be, They start to move at last To face the icy cold... And His black frigid blast. The leader is Tom Parks, He's blue-eyed, sure and strong. Jack Oakes, a bookish man Is next to come along. Zoe Cliff is the third, Intelligent and fast. The trio are well-matched And hopefully will last. Walking from the village, Their painful climb's begun Trudging through the ground-fog Beneath the heatless sun. They've reached the rocky slope On which the castle rests. They'll need all their resolve To face the coming test. Their struggle to the top Across the icy ground Is filled with stumbling falls On this unholy mound. A grappling hook's produced, Thrown hard atop the wall. The points first slide...then catch! It will not let them fall. They slowly climb the rope And stand upon the top. The sight that meets their eyes Brings all three to a stop. Below, in the courtyard, Far as the eye can see Are corpses old and new. Such horror cannot be! This three, Tom, Jack and Zoe Have dealt much with the dead, But horror fills the place Where that foul Count has fed! They're stunned, making their way Past mounds of bloodless flesh. Some corpses, old and dried, And some are all too fresh. Locating stairs which lead Into the black below, Each takes a lighted torch And steps down sure and slow. The winding stair descends Deep in the bowels of earth. The darkness is complete, Our trio's without mirth. "You know," Zoe whispers low, "Although it's day outside, The Count could be astir. In daytime he can hide." It's not a pleasant thought, To find the Count awake. They'd hoped for daytime sleep, Still do, for all their sake. In tension they press on As stairs end in a hall Both long and blackly dank. They slow down to a crawl. Along each side alcoves Are lined, both dark and deep. Some hold long-dead bodies, In some are rubbish heaps. As the hall sharply turns, Tom crashes to the ground! He's wrestling with something That's making not a sound! "Hold on!" Jack sharply speaks, And quickly stops the fray. The thing's a long dead corpse That fell into Tom's way. In shakiness Tom stands, Takes up his torch again. Their nerves are all but shot As they press on to win. Ahead, the hallway ends At a large dead-end room Could this be the dread place That they will find His tomb? As they enter the place, The torch light flickers low. They can see through the gloom The coffin of their foe. Comprised of iron, brick, And wood, it's age is clear. The lid's closed tight, they see, In caution drawing near Two crowbars are produced To lever up the lid. Tom and Jack, working hard, Uncover what is hid. As the top is opened, Zoe's poised to strike the blow With mallet and a stake... It's empty there below! "Oh, damn." She whispers soft While they stare down in fear, As if by looking hard They could make Him appear. "Let's get the hell out of..." Jack starts, but Tom's jerked back! Neck snapping loud, he falls Dead to the Count's attack! A cross is in Jack's hand As he and Zoe retreat In haste before the Count Astir on leaden feet. His eyes glow red as fire, Mad bloodlust fills his face. He's moving for the kill, Dark menace fills the place. Reluctantly he stops Before Jack's shaking cross. Zoe reaches in her pack... Such pow'r they've never crossed. A bottle is produced With liquid, blessed, inside. She quickly pops the lid To stay His wicked tide. As Dracula pulls back, Dark fury fills his face. He's ancient, and his strength Transcends both time and space. They've never faced a foe As deadly and as strong! The sheer force of His will They can't resist for long. In wild desperation They press Him back a step With holy water drops. At bay He's safely kept. He's forced into the coffin And barely held away. They'll never stake His heart! He'd surely make them pay! Jack does the only thing He can to end the fight. He quickly slams the lid Shutting the Count in tight "Hurry, Zoe..." He mutters, "...dig those damn chains out quick!" She grabs the rattling links And padlock, feeling sick. The lid begins to lift A fraction of an inch Though Jack lays full across The top, without a flinch. Hands sweating, she spreads chains From side to bolted side. At last the lock clicks home, Relief they just can't hide! The Count, in fury, roars And crashes loud within. Their hearts are blocks of ice, In fear that He may win. It's clear, though, that the chains Will hold despite His rage Imprisoning Him here From age to coming age! With mixed emotions they Take up their fallen friend. They'll both go to their homes And try their best to mend. The vampire-hunting days Are over for this pair. They just don't have the heart To search out one more lair. Jack and Zoe carry Tom Back up the way they came. There's one thing that's for sure, They'll never be the same! The sounds of the mad Count Grow fainter as they go Until they hear no more The raging of their foe. Amid the mountained land, The castle, dark and bleak, Deserted stands aloof Upon it's lofty peak. On many windy nights You can just barely hear The raging echoed Count Which clamps the heart with fear. Dark Release The brooding castle stands, Deserted, crumbling pile. Destitute of all life Ominous, dark and vile. O'erhead a plane flies by, The distant roar is faint And quite incongruous. Time here feels out of joint. Nearby the castle stands A village, quaint and small. In this last hundred years It's barely changed at all. The evil ruins are shunned By all within the town. A curse is said to dwell Within that blackish mound. A climber can be seen By haunted, frightened eyes Ascending that dread place Where death most surely lies. The climber is a man, A treasure-hunting fool Who's heard the folklore here. To him it's just a tool. It's clear to him as day, Men often used a "curse" To hide a treasure trove, Their closely guarded purse. He scoffs at tales of death, Of bloodless undead eyes. It's sure that ghostly tales Are children's stories, lies. The day is foggy, cool And chill is in the air. The noontime sun is high, Blue skies are clear and fair. Cold sweat upon his brow Resulting from this climb, He's reaching for the top Is up, has made good time. A cluttered courtyard lies Before him in the mist, Scattered with rocks and bones. He's hard upon his quest. Slowly making his way Down through the shadowed halls, He's shaken by the sight Of skulls along the walls. "Man! Someone really tried To make a scary seen For fright'ning yokels off! This really is obscene." Before him lies a well Of stairs, both dark and steep, Littered with fallen rock Through which he starts to creep. His flashlight is turned on Cutting a feeble swath Through the blackest darkness. He barely finds a path. "Huh, batteries must be weak", Muttering absently, "This place gives me the creeps." He fights the urge to flee. Small alcoves line the walls Filled with remains of men, Cold ancient-socket stares Make him turn cold within. The dead-ends finally yield A small room to his sight Wherein a coffin sits! Chain-bound, it's closed up tight. "A coffin, treasure filled!" He's shaking off his fear, Taking out a crowbar. The wealth is oh-so-near! The rusted locks and chains Are quickly snapped away Which kept the world locked out, The curious at bay. The treasure hunter stops, Softly dropping the bar. He lifts the creaking lid For which he's traveled far. Deep disappointment wells Within him as he sights No treasure, but a corpse. His chest feels coldly tight. But suddenly the corpse Snaps open fiery eyes! Like lightning, parchment hands Hold his throat as their prize! Relentlessly he's pulled Down where sharp fangs await To take his warm life's blood And thereby seal his fate. Before his fading sight He sees the creature change, Into a healthy man But still unearthly...strange. The Count, called Dracula, Has gained a dark release. The people of the world Can know no lasting peace. Beneath an eldrich moon A flying shape is seen Leaving the castle's ruins, Batlike, somehow obscene. The Accursed Hunt The eerie street lies silent On this moonless eve, Lit by a few yellowed globes. We should just turn and leave. Pressing on amidst the gloom Our feet ensheathed in mist, Soon we’ll witness fearfully The hunter’s dreadful tryst. The flitting shape of a bat, Huge, vile, somehow unclean Circles to the ground afar. By others it’s unseen. Unbelievingly we watch, It seems to grow, unfold Until it’s roughly man-sized, An evil darkly old. Like crimson lamps his eyes glow In search of bloody prey. His razored fangs brightly glint, He’ll find someone to flay. Dracula, the count of old, Hunts both for blood and sport. Once again he’s master, lord Over a helpless court. As Vlad he killed, tortured, maimed The subjects that he chose. Before he was afflicted, Before the curse arose. After he became undead, The Cursed, Nosferatu, His savagery increased by bounds To rend and tear anew. Now this hellish spawn is loosed Upon the quiet street Seeking for a victims’ flesh And blood both warm and sweet. Suddenly his head snaps round And heightened senses hear Clumsy footfalls of a man Approaching all too near. Up he leaps with serpent speed Into a nearby tree As the man comes into view, And doesn’t know to flee. The man is watched and studied: “He’s strong, a goodly sight!” Satisfied, the waiting count Will take hot blood tonight. The man, stopping, cocks his head In manner like a hound Which scents a danger odor Unseen upon the ground. Warily, the count observes The hunteds’ careful search Of surroundings cold and dark Which miss the counts’ high perch. “How could he feel me near him?” The count thinks silently. He’s never been detected, Thought that it could not be! Yet now a lowly mortal Has seemed to sense him near And even worse, in his mind, Shows not a sign of fear! Uncertainty rears its’ head As he regroups his mind. Carefully the prey has turned Thus leaving him behind. Rage at his own foolishness Propels him from the tree, As the moon begins to rise For all about to see. The man, whirling as he strikes Seeks to defend himself. Where does his prey get such speed? His fangs sink firm and well. This humans’ blood tastes quite odd, Sharp tang, not sickly sweet. Drained of blood, his victim falls Inert before his feet. Yet the man is still alive, Although he’ll surely die. To the counts’ astonishment He heaves a grateful sigh. “You’ve done me such a favor,” His victim softly speaks, “Released me from my own curse.” From throat-wounds life blood leaks. “Just in time, before the moon Has risen fully up. You see, I am a werewolf, Am glad my time is up. I don’t know how my blood-curse May react with your own...” The man continues speaking, Then life is quickly gone. Dracula, within himself Reacting to the moon Feels the wolf-blood start to boil. And nearly does he swoon. There is no change to a beast, His form’s immutable. But in agony he falls, His harsh throes terrible. Wolf-curse strikes against his own. The conflict will not cease Long as full moon reigns supreme. He cannot gain release. Painfully he raises up, In agony he flies Back to his mansioned coffin Unto his earthly ties. Forever more he will dread The full-moons’ awful rise, Will cower in his coffin And will not dare to fly. Always will the agony Remain, brought by the wolf Which the human has escaped By bridging deaths’ black gulf.
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