The Vampire and the Knight of the Neon Cross
The night lay still save frog and owl,
Slow clouds have veiled the moon,
Pungent breath of stagnant death,
Exhales the scent of doom.
An injured swordsman in beaten plate,
Stands battered in front a beast,
He retakes his stance and shrugs off the wounds,
Defying an easy defeat.
The Templar knight flicks blood from his eye,
And cleans his crimson brow,
He stands to face his devil foe,
Solid, peerless, proud.
Terror and fear are overcome,
He plants his foot to ground,
Readies his soul to bear his death,
Summons his strength for a final breath,
And purges his mind of doubt.
He jerks his torso to adjust his berc,
Inwoven with silver ring,
Shuddering with awesome power to shatter
The span of midnight wings.
Upon his chest sits blaring bright
The symbol of his faith,
A cross in red inlaid with light
Engraved into his plate.
He licks the blood which seeps from his lip,
A metallic sup of life,
A life well spent to end a demon,
The intent of his holy knife.
He ignites the photons that shroud his blade,
Its alloy pulses with light,
Vision narrowing on the creature’s fangs,
Perfecting his grip round the vibrating tang,
He resolves to slay this wight.
A blood-eater, a pale-faced grave-robber,
Just a sucker that got the drop,
A rival beneath the Templar's skill;
But chance is known to weave faster than will,
When fate has stitches pop.
A vampire unworthy to carry its name,
Foul and brute and gluttonous,
A night-stalker bringing its kind to shame,
Degraded, low, and ravenous.
Sloven beast too taken by its fiend,
Losing its presence of mind,
Descending deeper into its sanguine thirst,
Ferocious more than the other Cursed,
To animal hunger resigned.
The evil servant is coiled to pounce,
Its shoulders crowded in,
The lissome body shivering with lust
Of draining the Templar’s limbs.
The air is heavy, hot, and damp,
And steam rolls off the grass,
The obsidian night has a garnet moon,
But the glow is fading fast.
Darkness gains with the battle’s length,
The monster’s power grows,
As blood is let and energy spent,
He feeds from the Templar’s nearing death,
With each exchanging blow.
Despite the dreadful demon strength,
The Templar worries no loss,
Stalwart he stands with doom in his hand,
As a Knight of the Neon Cross.
. . .
In a blinding flash the beast makes charge,
Moving at fearsome speed,
Claws in front to shred a neck,
And force his foe to bleed.
The neon knight in but a moment,
Shifts his elbow down,
Braces to counter the creature’s attack,
Aiming to knock him upon his back,
Sprawling along the ground.
The rush of speed and steeled block
Connect and fiercely meet,
The Templar’s blow finds collar bone,
Askew the monster’s body thrown,
But does not leave his feet.
The vampire splutters his bile tongue,
Shuttering with bestial rage,
A growl, a hiss, a hoarse whisper,
He curses the Templar’s name.
Its pupils grow to most the eye,
Beset with blood-lusting craze,
Snapping and spitting like a rabid wretch,
But the knight remains unfazed.
The servant of God steadies his hand,
And sharps his target sure,
A solar thrust of his sweltering blade,
Will leave the beast no more.
Sol-Sting shimmers within his grip,
A blade of seven suns,
For seven days of blessed light,
Have charged its edge with holy might,
To see the undead undone.
He swings his saber in practice stroke,
The air crackles and splits,
Electric sparks launch off the sword,
Burning wherever they hit.
With a sudden twist he aims his fist
Directly towards his foe,
And fires out his gauntlet, blue
Phantom stakes of neon hue,
In brilliant arcing glow.
The light-made spikes strike their target,
And bury within its chest;
Radiant geysers of white-hot heat
Burst from out its breast.
An opening made, the knight makes haste
To end the monster’s life,
Preparing to mount his final assault
And decide the fate of this fight
In but an instant he springs off his foot,
Dashing with tremendous force,
He meets the vampire along its side,
Overshooting with a grinding slide,
But purpose is with his course.
Pivoting at the heel he quickly spins
To face the fight front-on,
The beast is stunned by the sudden motion,
Mere seconds left to respond.
The time has come, the knight takes his stance,
Carefully marking his blade,
To mortally travel its ultimate path,
And send off this monster’s shade.
He thrusts the sword above his head
With thundering voice he says:
“In the name of the Father, The Risen Son,
And the Holy Ghost,
I smite thee dead. Amen.”
He makes to swing the sword from aloft,
But with cunning acts a feint,
Quickly bringing the swordpath down,
Skimming the blade-tip across the ground,
Tracing the creature’s leg.
Up from below begins the stroke,
The furious flame-edge possessed
By sunlight absorbed and now released
For rending the vampire’s flesh.
Cleaving the groin the blade burns its way,
At slow, steady pace ripping,
Bisecting the viscera, gutting the fiend,
Exploding with light as the monster screams,
Intestines singed and slipping.
Working his way through bone and marrow,
His sword combusting ablaze,
He slices the beast in bias half,
In a blast of neon spray.
Bone snapping, rib cage cracking,
The terror of guttural sound,
Eviscerated and conflagrated,
Spilling innards, disemboweled.
Pushing, severing the undead’s heart,
Dividing aorta from valve,
Igniting the chambers with a jarring flash,
As blood spews out its mouth.
The knife threatens to find its exit
Between the neck and shoulder,
The creature’s vision growing dim,
Its eternal night is over.
On a gushing torrent of effulgent blood,
Spitting a fountain of fire,
The blade shears through the devil’s flesh,
Slashing sinew and fiber.
The stroke is finished, the sword run its course,
The monster sundered in two,
Burning bright in the obsidian night,
The creature’s figure is set alight,
The Templar has cut him through.
The spreading heat of sunlight captured,
Violates the vampire’s veins,
Destroying each organ, each every vessel,
Till not one shred remains.
The butchered beast erupts apart
In resplendent belching flame,
Its cinders catch upon the wind,
Scattering behest of midnight’s whim,
And the devil is soundly slain.
. . .
The knight sheaths his sword and makes to leave,
A trial of Fortune won,
Duly grateful his soul is kept,
Death once more out-run.
His steed lay lifeless, a victim of chance,
Slashed and lying dead,
In darkness alone he goes on foot,
The start of his journey’s tread.
Far deep within the obsidian night,
He squarely marches off,
Replete in lucid crimson light,
As a Knight of the Neon Cross.
The poem’s fight and emotions are described really well and it truly touches the heart
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