far beneath the steeples of cobble stoned london, <br />he moves without the parting of a shadows grace. <br /> from morning to morning he carries no longing. <br /> <br /> under the heavy hymns of the luthern organs <br /> he breaths amongst centuries of dead and <br /> thoughtful saints <br /> <br /> he can see thier forms in the darkened hour, <br />thier drawn out robes crested and wrinkled. <br />the emblems of holy words dust covered and faded. <br /> <br /> now once again he must part the letters <br /> in tombs of mortered regret. <br /> <br /> ressurection of the coffin figure to wander and speak <br /> to whom he may, walking through herb gardens. <br /> <br />carried by tombstone... gravestone october winds, <br /> which blow hollowly causing his morbid child to flee, <br /> all those memories of her. <br /> <br /> now he must refrain from the glow of the brass <br /> lanterns and pale jugulars his clavicle redemption. <br /> <br /> as through the arterial streets of london the <br />bloodless form of his opaque continence <br />mourns and is drained of all mineral colums.<br /><br />nathan martin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/count-dracula/
