A Poor Carmilla

Under my bed
my vampire sleeps
waiting for night to fall
and before this young moon finds perfect
hues of blood red silver
he will become
his hungriest
 
It is then I feel him stirring the most
he has no truck with websites
or puny poetic ideals
to him that is ballroom dancing for elephants

Soon he will shake my body again
like a rag in his wind
and although I am may be a poor Carmilla
he sweeps me away
to go awandering the mists
sating his longings
 
I can not cook for him
nor bear his children
and we will never wade through streams
or splash rainbows in sharp sunlight
and yet

I am utterly his plaything
always his shy willing mouse
for those noble black cat ways
never quite consumed by that darkness
as I savour the delicious elegance
of his shadow 

Soon his hour will come
and I am already shuddering and shivering
with the fresh anticipation of an innocent new leaf
one small naked Spring bud
bound and ready to abandon life itself
for a single explosive touch from his flesh