Vlad

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Quench his autumnal whisper,
silence a voice like the crunch
of dry leaves underfoot.
In the moon of fog he tightens his grip,
so wall him up and try not to forget
that he does indeed possess a third of the Earth.

In the coldest soil entomb him, do not embalm him.
Calm him with a quicklime kiss,
quickly now, my love.
Deceive me, would he, bury what I care for
and wreck that which I loved.
Men of wire scurry, detrimental robots
that soil your memory, my dear,
become his scarlet woman.
I ask you again, little one,
my darling love, did he give you
that blank expression on your face?

At dawn tomorrow, heavy with dew
and the smell of soil on my boots
I shall walk the yellow path
through the enchanted woods
to his lofty castle.
Through the field of stakes
where countless died impaled
I shall claim back the day he says
is mine no more. At sunrise,
when the kiss of daybreak glistens,
perchance I will catch him unawares
as he crawls into his grave of native earth.
I become running water
to dissolve his unholy corpse,
with thorns I shall pierce his wicked heart,
I'll snuff out the monster's spark of life
and cleanse his filthy carcass with Holy Water and salt.
Sunlight will dry him out as dust,
and soon he will be sucked up by the four winds,
and the slaughtered will rise again.