STOKER

ANOTHER FINE POEM BY MY FRIEND GARY SMITH

 

Seven years for his ancient tale before he cast his spell
in which three brides within it, they never kissed nor tell
many things are hidden, houses, names and Lordly tombs
all there in hidden view to make maiden Victorians swoon

It started with a dream they say,nightmare by any other name
in London, Whitby then Cruden Bay before being led astray
In a carriage coach to the Borgo pass black horses led the way
to Castle Dracula, found on no map, where Jonathan did stay

Alone at night, evil in sight, like it”s authors midnight walks
under gaslit streets, which Victorians sweep,ladies still do talk
a cold beautiful wife, once clad in white, betrothed to her beauty
preyed on his mind,to be unkind,like all then it became his duty

And his master”s voice,often heard, from both stage and letter
a knightened man, easy slighted man,whilst he was ink & blotter
and when all was told, and on Lyceum Theatre stage it did unfold
there was no praise, only cutting words, for the story darkness told

But who remembers them but footnotes , shadows on his stage
dustcovers time, and books that rhyme, written on his page
his was a darker tale,a hidden spell,like a ladies Lordly death house
a tale of a lady fine, who spoke of time, and hearing the attic mouse

He alone knew what he”d wrote,well excepting the treasured few
a letter his mother wrote, if I may quote ,” You have outwitted Poe ”
and a review that said ” In a century this tale will still be told ”
but what off the man,and his two marching bands,when he was old

To have written this, to have had this gift,and then to be alone
did he ever think,when he held a drink, of his dark lord on his throne
did he ever smile, in his devlish style, while shouting at the sea
it”s endless roar,from his voice it tore, his king vampire we do see.

(c) 2016 Gary Smith

 

 

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