Vempyre And The Ailing Orchid

A short, gothic tale. Written in terza rima.

What gothic truths of feral ruin, when great
Churches burn and crumble. Foundations laid
In ground tainted with the harmonious weight

Of the casket on the soil. Where people prayed,
There lies etchèd scores of fickled woe, where sounds
Of pain emit. Above the mossy tombs (jade

And fading with age), stands an orphaned ground-
Fixed bough, unclothed and pallid, weeping low.
The wind caught its fragrant funeral gown

Once, but now the lifelessness - which aglow
With macabre vitamins had forced its way
Up through the earth which rotten flesh preserves - slow-

Climbs upwards, leading energy astray.
For this crypt was laced with fear and passion -
Crazed vempyric notions - that when the day

Did hide itself, this spirit would rise ashen.

End.