Past Midnight

[miyako73]

Two nights ago,
it was the ballerina,
blond and blue-eyed,
in a sequined tutu
and satin pink shoes
mending her wings
of feathers and cottons
as she danced her last.

The night before,
it was the same fisherman
in a distant island
of shimmering crystals
and emerald sea
talking to the waves,
to the earliest star
for her mapless sail.

Just last night,
it was the pretty child again,
hairless-bald and skinny,
in a garden of shrubs,
a maze of Spring flowers,
buds, and dwarf junipers,
kissing daisies and lilacs,
sharing secrets and breaths.

Their still lashes and eyelids
and deforming eyes,
jaundiced and resigned,
looked and stared
as if they willed my dagger
to thrust and slash their flesh
and their decaying bones
bleeding tears and perfume.

But I am no ripper of bile
of the angels in the sunset
singing their last words
in faint pitch and tone
to the creator of dreams,
to the maker of nightmares,
where I can slay demons
and deprive vampires.