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Last Rites

By the fiery glow of the setting sun
I fight with sword in hand, I am so near
His wagon stayed, his men fight yet, they fear.
I am not so brave a man, though I run
And still strive to near his black iron box,
My blood pulses faster, and still faster
In the waning moments, my disaster.
I lift the lid and there the fiendish locks
so tick the waning minutes of light,
As joy is seen upon his waxy face
A victory so clear my plight,
A sudden rage of spirit, pulsed and laced
In through my veins, in heated blood
I plunged the stake inside and clipped the bud.

 

Author notes

On the Climax Of Bram Stoker's Dracula
Where vistory is snacted away from the feind,
in the last possible moments.

A contest entry

Let me know How this makes you feel, what do you think?

    I plan to revise this poem: please leave constructive criticism!
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Comments

1 - 5 of 5

  • Frodofan silver member
    March 1

    Edit | Reply
    "Clipped the bud" seems an out of place phrase to me, and not really fitting for the mood (and subject) set by the preceding lines.

    I really like this slice of life style though - just describing the final climactic moment. And I think the description is very good and definently allows the reader to fall into the fear and anticipation of the speaker.

    Thanks for entering.


  • Mairi bheag gold member
    February 12
    Edit | Reply
    Exciting stuff!


  • Mistress Leala silver member
    February 11
    Edit | Reply
    Great imagery, well written piece. I loved Bran Stoker's Dracula.


  • suseann
    February 11

    Edit | Reply
    Why do you suppose. Those who bravely put a stop to vampires with hammer and wooden stake always wait in doing so until almost his dark awakening at dusk? Drama I suppose is magnified this way. Ha! Why not at high noon. I enjoyed this.Very well scripted verse on the fear but stronger loathing of pure evil.

1 - 5 of 5