By You Thus His Vampire

by you thus his vampire and he would do things too you things you think you want him too do to you, whimper things that moan as if the wind, there is none of fast asleep sleeping fast in breath and you he sees and he would take each out hefting them too weigh each one each their time like full melons the farmers wife he would inspecting them making sure there is no yellow crust beneath gently squeezing each until blue veins run spider webs off around like a map of the world but made of blood aureoles rich and pink picking that one of which is not always closest to the heart nipping the tips until and gently like smoke and shadows by you thus my vampire his finger growing in each ear like snakes expanding the tongue a soft warm tree made up of naught but miles of scaly trunk and the tearing through to the heart of the rose and the belly moving as if in life it never could as heavy the lighter beast is tucked back in safe and warm inside it's cup made of white china as the other is lifted slowly up and turned upon it's end and slowly drained becoming as the color ash now grey shriveling to look as if and now of what it has become another warm empty bucket made of skin never to know thy pleasure of it's maker, red the wine.