by Michael R. Burch
Vampires are such fragile creatures;
we dread the dark, but the light destroys them …
sunlight, or a stake, or a cross—such common things.
Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings,
we shrink from his voice.
Centuries have taught us:
in shadows danger lurks for those who stray,
and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs
and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs.
He has no choice.
We are his prey, plump and fragrant,
and if we pray to avoid him, the more he prays to find us,
prays to some despotic hooded God
whose benediction is the humid blood
he lusts to taste.