Frank F. Atanacio Poetry

The Vampire Shook her head,
the quiet dead,
the midnight air
had made her black hair
damp, wet,
and it clung to her forehead,
in loose strands,
she had her demands,
and the men were suspicious,
but they accepted her plans,
her white teeth sparkled in such a pretty face,
the man she called knew his place,
her actions made him weak,
as he stroked her cheek,
and dinner,
she’d no longer seek.

Poet: Frank F. Atanacio