Twilight is falling, Vampira stirs in her carmine silk
coffin, nostrils flare scenting of attar of roses, she
stretches luxuriously stepping gracefully into the room.
She floats to the French windows throwing them open,
she bows very deeply to salute the rising moon.
Outside snowflakes dance in the crisp cold night air.
In the garden, the cawing of night jars rends the air
while the lawns glimmer from snow like shot silk
and filigree hazelnut hedges are kissed by the moon.
Her chivalrous paramour was returning tonight, she
waited joyously, her heart and the windows were open,
tonight there would be a masquerade ball in that very room.
Kasimir, singing the nightingale’s song swept into the room,
held Vampira tight in his arms, sucked in her scent on the air
arousing tender flames of desire, his heart was wide open.
Her gown was ethereal with stars sewn on midnight blue silk.
The chamber was almost ready, except for the chandeliers she
adored; a candlelight counterpoint to the beams of the moon.
The howls of wolves was carried on the wind while the moon
found gaps in the silver clouds. The butler came into the room
to announce that the hour had come for the masquerade. She
hastened to hall to greet all the creatures who loved night air.
The first to arrive were werewolves dressed in their finest silk
shirts. Vampira’s masquerade ball was now officially open.
Next were the Fae, who flew in the French windows still open;
fallen angels came in, floating ‘tween clouds framing the moon,
they greeted Vampira, their wise eyes shimmering like moire silk,
then came hundreds of pairs. doomed lovers who almost filled the room,
in a limbo of insatiable passion, their musk sucked up the air.
Looking at Kasimir, Vampira recalled how they stood at that brink, she
recoiled, thankful they seen each other instead. She
laughed gaily as Kashimir bowed and took her hand to open
the dance of night creatures whose chatter now filled the air.
Unnoticed they slipped out to hunt game under the moon
while the lovers cavorted in exhausted ecstasy in the room
so richly furnished with brocade, moire and thin tissue silk.
Kasimir took her hand, she looked at the setting moon.
The doors were still open, they stepped back to the room.
A soft wind, cleansing air, gently rustled the silk.
For Poetry Potluck – Jingle Poetry – Signs, Languages and Symbols