Strydar Enox

Strydar Enox Poems

The Best Poem Of Strydar Enox

The Plague.

The plague came today,
swift and unceasing,
the rats and vermin ming'ling while feasting
upon the corpses that clog the way.

I shiver when I dwell upon
those who have already fallen
to delight'd Death's welcom'd calling,
and have pass'd far beyond.

There are places mark'd by Death,
by that grim black figure,
who waits though none else linger
to claim for his own that last breath;

places left to ruin, decay-
hanging shutters, shatter'd glass,
walls broken and chimneys smash'd-
homes, fam'lies, lost to the plague.

Though I avoid such hopeless squares,
wander off to better streets-
where gypsies play and tap their feet-
I fear, my health, the plague impairs.

My lungs ache, the cold always creeps;
it's been four days since last I slept,
and through all that my nurse has kept
vigil watch-she never sleeps.

But then one night she did not come.
I wait'd all night for her smiling face,
her gentle care, her healing paste,
but she never did return.

That same night, Death came for me-
I heard him at the door,
his long black cloak brushing the floor,
his lum'nescent eyes staring wond'ringly.

Death look'd diff'rent than first I thought:
his skin was white as a Midwinter moon,
his black hair, blue eyes, voice a soft croon,
the adoring expression the candlelight caught.

'Resilient you are, ' he said as he approach'd,
'and beautiful, too.' He flash'd me a smile-
I was so stunn'd I could not speak all the while;
I was mesmeriz'd by the words he spoke.

'Are you Death, come to take me? ' I ask'd in a whisper,
hoping for sleep, wishing it to be true.
He shook his head and said, 'But I have come for you,
to ask and entice you away from the Nether.'

'Ask what you will, I just wish to sleep, '
I explain'd wearily,
closing my eyes for Eternity
to wrap me in her slumber so deep.

He was close now, right beside my bed;
and as he lean'd down, his face before mine,
beyond all that beauty I saw a Heart so kind....
Then he bent closer, and fed.

Two fangs like needles pierc'd the flesh
of my neck, drawing a crimson river,
a fountain drain'd-the pain a quiver
of infinite fire-by Death's precious kiss.

My tired body was set afire-
all my bones, all my veins;
my very eyes puls'd with pain-
by a foreign venom's deadly ire.

A curd'ling scream sprang past my lips,
a cry so desp'rate Death began shaking,
releasing me as though waking,
and from his fangs blood trickl'd in drips.

It came to me then, as I endur'd Hell's fire,
that the white-skinn'd beauty hovering
was nothing short of True Death's coveting,
but went instead by name of Vampire.

Stories so old they haunt'd the graves,
ghostly figures preying till dawn,
drinking mortal blood, as is their bond,
and feeding the fears of their vengeful raves.

I writh'd and fought as he made to hold me still,
feeling a new cold rack my body,
ice frosting the blood so gaudy
that paint'd my veins and gorg'd on the kill.

And then the fire was gone,
all incineration ceas'd,
and I felt as though I'd been releas'd
from something, like spots from a fawn.

I quiet'd in startl'd surprise,
and look'd for the mirror.
What I saw was an image far clearer
than could be seen by mortal eyes:

Reflect'd on that glist'ning surface-
with citrus clouds, a magenta sky,
and feeble pricks silver to the eye-
was my very last sunset so perfect.

I was a vampire now, nothing could change
this impossible outcome,
orchestrat'd by my vamp'ric magician;
white skin, fangs... I'd join'd his world strange.

I learn'd much in the years to come:
my maker taught me of all the world,
from the great cities to religion unfurl'd.
Through time we danc'd, forever young.

I saw things no mortal can imagine:
angel statues with blinking eyes,
millions of stars in thousands of Skies,
and the aging of Life that left me no kin.

And the hunt! what fun it was,
stalking the humans in the night,
eas'ly overpow'ring them with my might,
and sinking my fangs to feed on their blood!

Cent'ries pass'd, and I soon found
that no change was not so wonderful,
that endless killing was no longer fantastical;
and morbidly I wish'd I was dead in the ground.

My vampiric maker thought me insane,
longing so much for hideous death,
saying I should be grateful to be so bless'd
as to live for eternity, win Life's game.

I scowl'd and yell'd,
'You care not for life anymore-
the hunt to you now is a chore.
Oh why, oh why did you damn me to Hell! '

He had no answer for me, my blue-eyed maker,
and I felt like killing him at that very moment,
but I knew only regret would follow, and lament
I could not, for no tears could I weep while a vampire.

So instead I left,
ran far away,
into a town where I could stay,
and in that town to myself I kept.

One day, some years later,
a neighb'rly man died of 'old age',
and his death was thought none too vague,
and it made me wonder of my old maker.

I attend'd that funeral, dress'd all in black.
I walk'd with the mourners beside the hearse,
all of them wond'ring what could be worse,
and only I myself knowing the answer to that.

I ask'd myself, as I walk'd beside the hearse,
'What truly is this dark gift?
Am I curs'd or am I bless'd? '
Though saved from the plague, I chose Curse.

Strydar Enox Comments