Dracula Sonnet

by R. Saint Claire

Peasants fear the mention of his name.
Grown men tremble at the setting sun.
O’er the Carpathian mountain range
Among the forest where wild wolves run.

An elegant Count who charms everyone
Whose soul’s as foul Whose soul’s as 
foul as dirt where he lays,
Garlic and mirrored reflections he shuns,
Symbols of Christ, the sun’s golden rays.
For centuries past he’s spent his dark days
Inside a casket, a hideous tomb.  
Pitiful lady, in blood she will pay.
There at the window! Now inside her room!
The Beast is within. He comes to her bed.
Behold the Dragon! ‘Tis he, the Undead!

by R. Saint Claire

Read more at exlibrisregina.com

4 Comments to “Dracula Sonnet”

  1. Welcome to poets corner Gina. just a few things, try not to forget your name and the “read more”

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