I've loved so many vampires in my life,
and with each one shared such a wond'rous love
full of the joys of flesh, its sins and blood,
though never a one ever took too much
or ever used it to fuel her flesh.
(Which may not accord with what you've been told -
it's light years beyond the vampires' bad press.)
In truth, the blood intoxicates psyches -
a minimal droplet will work the trick
to trigger their sex into overdrive
and to shatter in turn my last reserves.
They've hidden their sex in cartons of blood,
an aphrodisiac mixed with fear, spin
the added ingredient - unlikely
tales vanillas will hear... and stay away.
Only the chosen get close; the rest
are hedged with fears of the death of their souls.
They may try to nourish, externalise
the dread that has gripped them by the heart, dread
which only joy can move. But not for them
surrendering to the darkest unknown.
Of all the many I've loved, there were four,
Chilli, Chalk, Joan and Horse, of whom I'll speak,
each with her own sweet peccadilloes
(according that is to the vampire code):
one who would only take blood from the toes,
one who would intermingle our blood, two
who insisted on one - and one for free.
My greatest regret: I've outlived them all!
For Poetics ~28 at dVerse Poets the theme of the prompt is Vampires
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