The strange new thoughts are invasive. The changes to what life is are pervasive. One must be careful out on the street, Especially of who one decides to eat,
To keep things in the superlative, One must never eat a friend or a relative. It is only those that no one will ever miss. That will receive that final vampiric kiss.
Life is filled with a cold sense of rage That is seldom written about on the page. But more, there is a sense of loneliness And it bleeds the path of this cold emptiness.
Every attempt is made to keep life pro quid. The reality is that all around is now liquid. The values a man once held are void, and soon gone. And the loneliness rages on and ever on.
Feelings such as love are an unanswered question. The search for a suitable lover holds hesitation. Who would want to live forever, seeing loved ones die? Unquenchable is the thirst making the vampire sigh.
Still, it is that music pierces even jaded souls. The mastery of this art whispers of universal control. There is something in a well-written piece's majesty That fills even an immortal soul with beauty and legacy.
The hunt is on as the curtain falls like a guillotine, Death, it seems, is the dark dream of every living being. And when life has come to be held in vapid disdain. It cannot be long before the grasp on such life is in vain.
Death in all of its tender beauty is something to behold, This is the truth that the maestro allowed slowly to unfold. As drop by precious drop, the victim's life drained to feed The visions of a vampire feeding with vision, not greed.
The end of life can be a studied meditation of impunity, The release allows the sufferer his moments of dignity. The human moments of tangled imperfections play at the heart. It is these that make life, living, and undead, a work of art.
(c) October 9, 2025 Michael Doyle All Rights Reserved
“Let us recollect that peace or war will not always be left to our option; that however moderate or unambitious we may be, we cannot count upon the moderation, or hope to extinguish the ambition of others.” – Alexander Hamilton (1788)
The Queen of Bones Takes Her Throne by Michael Doyle
Two children live as sparks of duality, Two sparks born to burn through eternity. The blood and bones entwine with no enmity, Walked past the bewitching hours of mortality.
Pagan horrors linger with dark secrets known, These are the ways of the woods readily shown. Two seekers of life to death and death to life Her children awaken at peace with this strife.
In life, there is only one true inevitability. Avoiding death remains far beyond our capability. The fog and mist cloak the queen's arrival, But they cannot provide her children's survival.
A sinister evil grows hidden out in the woods, And it will bring death as moonlit shadows should. The stripped-down truths of crown and throne, Tell another story of being off the path alone.
Ghostly whispers bid the brave to explore, Though those who would be safe callously implore That we stay on the path to avoid the cost, And that to wander on our own always has its cost.
Through isolation and loneliness, their fate is woven Into a tale lived and told by the dark forest coven. Power and dominion are wielded by the queen's authority. Life and death are recognized as only transitory.
(c) October 8, 2025 Michael Doyle All Rights Reserved
“We are either a United people, or we are not. If the former, let us, in all matters of general concern act as a nation, which have national objects to promote, and a national character to support. If we are not, let us no longer act a farce by pretending to it.” – George Washington (1785)
“We must learn to honor excellence in every socially accepted human activity, however humble the activity, and to scorn shoddiness, however exalted the activity. An excellent plumber is infinitely more admirable than an incompetent philosopher. The society that scorns excellence in plumbing because plumbing is a humble activity and tolerates shoddiness in philosophy because it is an exalted activity will have neither good plumbing nor good philosophy. Neither its pipes nor its theories will hold water”. – John W. Gardner, author and leader (8 Oct 1912-2002)
A new vampire feels invincible at night But it's quite the opposite in sunlight. Transformational in a flash of firsts, The provocations are felt in the thirst.
Vampires are the apex predators holding control, The keepers of life and death without souls. As we eat our steaks on the dinner plate, Taking lives is simply the vampiric fate.
Murder is a second language for some, Embraced as in the dreams of this kingdom. There is no guilt in its needful embrace, And the reading of minds is a trick in place.
Mundane as it is useful in reading one's prey, Food, sex, and home are all most will ever say. The vampire chases phantoms of its former self, And learns that some reading is not on the shelf.
There are new habits of need and want to form, And there are new patterns to which to conform. These are the habits of the creature of the night, Taking on new life and away from the daylight.
There is an exclusivity in using weakness to rise, But if you look close enough, it's in the eyes. Allowing what is intended as a hateful slight To become the call and response filling the night.
The master seeks to train the fledgling's appraisal. Hoping to skip a turnaround of fate's carousel. The world is seen through in terms of experience, Most of it is shameful in its naked deference.
What is true for one man is not always true When it comes to the second man's point of view. Evil, it seems, comes in patterns even in the night, The brutality of man's prejudice is never right.
As one learns the life of the New Orleans vampire, One learns of pleasure and burning with desire. There is a gravitation felt pulling one another in, This then is the sheer beginning of living in sin.
(c) October 7, 2025 Michael Doyle All Rights Reserved
We look back on yesterday's self, Like a new look of horror from our shelf, And as we turn from page to page We find more foolishness than wisdom from a sage.
Memory is a monster as the building groans. Six courses devoured, each on its own. Until at last the host makes his appearance And offers an apology in his greatest deference.
Two vampires enter a church post priest-icide, As at least one wished it were deicide. Serving gods is an honor of it own display, But in this pain the body passes its way.
Although the transition is the pain of dying, And the needs leave one's empty soul crying, One must never lap up the blood of the dead, For it will drag one down with the greatest dread.
Down into the depths of the lapdogs of Hell. There in the pitiful abyss where the Devil dwells. And from this position, one can never rise up, This is the price paid from the sacrificial cup.
The vampire's blood inside laughs in its control, A chuckle and a spark that teases at one's soul. It is more than too late for any resistance. The Vampire's joke laps with flames of persistence.
The restraint of the hunter becomes a new known art. Where each part of life's symphony plays its part. Everywhere looked, there is a new sense to favor, The choices to be had lead to a new life to savor.
The master teaches the student the art of the kill, Finding much humor where the student finds thrill. There is amusement to be had in the ways of haste, And that leads to problems of disposing of the waste.
The student feels agony wanting to find home, But the master knows the student will now walk alone. For once, one has turned into the bestial vampire impure The disease had is one that is at best difficult to cure.
(c) October 6, 20225 Michael Doyle All Rights Reserved
Heading out of Australia to escape this Aussie winter. First stop Japan, then UK/Ireland and if work doesn't call me back, onto Chicago. I will make it up as I go along
ALOHA PROMISES FOREVER 