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How is my poem?

2 posts in this topic

On a cold, crisp February night
As I walked down the deserted
Detroit street
There I saw her, leaning
Against the lamppost, wearing
An olive-colored parka
Around her neck was a mink scarf
She looked like a starlet from the 1930s
And when she smiled
She warmed the air around me
So much so that I had the urge
To turn my jacket lapel back down
The cold didn’t matter when she smiled

She said her name was Anastasia
I introduced myself and took her hand
I jumped, startled at the contrast
With her warm summer smile
Her hands were the hands of death
As cold as frosted steel
Ice cold despite her layers of fur

But she took my hand in hers
And gripped me tight
She said I would be warmer
In her room at The Grandville
I followed her, but the cold
Would not go away
Like she said it would

I excused myself to go
But she pulled me into a kiss
Long, sensuous, and passionate
Like a spider trapping its prey
In its sticky web of doom
Her lips were warm
As warm as her gentle smile
Fire against fire
She turned off the lights
And there we loved in the dark
Tangled in a mess of hair,
Sheets, arms, and legs
Warm body against cold
Raging fire against hard ice
And then I felt a sharp pain
In my neck, searing me
Killing me, sending fire
Coursing through my veins
Filling me to the very core

I am changing—I feel it in me
I thirst, an unquenchable
An unholy thirst
I drink water but it does nothing
Only blood, warm crimson blood
Could satiate this thirst
It burns like the fiery pits of Hell
I feel my teeth grow into fangs
Fangs just like hers

My vision is sharper
My hearing clearer
My sense of smell acute
But I can no longer stand
The light of day

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To be completely honest I don't really like it as a poem. I think that this would have been better told as a flash fiction story or perhaps even a postcard story. 

What leads me to say this is that there is no constancy from one stanza to the next, and there is no rhyme, or rhythm (that I could find).

emerge likes this

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