Posted on Aug 31, 2013



Nosferatu picture courtesy of

The white face stares within
from the window yet again
Bloodless is the skin
as are the eyes, yet sharp as pins

Whispered, soundless lips move
scratching at the window pane too
With nails long and cold white hands
reaching from the darklands

Reaching for what lies within
hungers for what should’ve been
And salivates in its thirst
wanting to feed, fit to burst

The sleeping figure stirs in dreams
unaware of being seen
But images intrude the sleep
of monsters who on innocents feed

And then the sleeping figure awakes
suddenly aware of envious hate
And sits up to look around
to the window, nowt to be found

Back to sleep the figure goes
just as the shadows grow
Once again the face appears
bloodless and so very near…

Posted in: Poetry