All Writers Are Vampires

Notice us there in the last row of the symphony,
snatching at the trembling notes of a violin,
seizing the shimmering strains of an oboe to replay later
in the greedy solitude of the page.

See us there in cafes, parks, and subway lines,
stealing snippets of whispered secrets,
tucking away confidences and confessions and obsessions
to reanimate into forms of our own.

Realize us right there among you, next to you, within you,
sucking at your ecstasies, swallowing your sorrows,
feeding upon your pains and pleasures and flaws and fantasies
to resurrect some word-formed creature whose immortality
is only, is all of—this.

Film still from Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula