Vampire's Garden

Sequestered in the greenhouse. Mosaic fracturing the uniform glass walls. Cathedral hangings of wooden crosses. Mahogany carved, ingrained with stains of the old and new. Polished to perfection. Sanded, nailed to the door with ferocious capability. Injected new diaphanous walls. Drawing the lattice shut, enveloped in clear silence.

Cavernous display. Luminescent sheen in every nook and cranny. Blossoms spring up, drowning the stone floors. Scraped floors, clean and rocky peaked grey. Colour drowns the dull. Vivid buds. Florets sprinkled over bushes of flora. Roses blossom over by the bend. Tables of trays with seeds and samples. Segregated pots in rows of distinct sects weeded out with surgical precision. Violin like strings sprouting leaves and buds. Poppies springing up with vitality. Competing for light. Blazing in the glory of survival. Peonies through the distance, blooming, numerous and rapid. Hidden seeds with manifold petals. Cardinals gathered safely in a corner. An illustrious garden. Evergreen. Never wilting. Permanence in its eternal pristine poise.

Morning fades to night. Back to morning. Dew drops crystallise on the outer walls. Surrounded by the unruly world around it. Forested from the eyes of prying strangers. Coveted prize. Pearlescent walls, translucent gazes. 

A figure through the glass. Solitary. Calla hooded. Death pale. High collared, lace. Thorns in the absence of frivolity. A face emerges from the shadows even in the blaze of light. Light itself? That pale white elusiveness, outshining the murky gloam lurking in the corners. Pestilence respects the bounds for all that grows, thrives. Survives. Feeding off soil, routine irrigation and the bountiful sunshine. Light that intertwines itself with the darkness until there remains none at all. Tendrils grasping onto the walls and coating the floors until the density of vines sweeps through. An entity unto itself.

Curious creature, is she. Swooping, agile. Deftly cutting off weeds and excess. Trimming and polishing until it becomes the same light it was fed. Blossoms under scrutiny. Clean and proper, yet always covered. Eyes like the dials of clocks, mechanically surveying the sight before her. 

As the day begins, so does her work. The padlocked doors swing open and with surefooted grace, she lifts the can. Glare from the sun? Or gleaming reflections from the smoothness down by the camellias? That violent crimson flares with the sun. Burning bright on the petal tips, riotous centre. With a swoop that smoothness is flattened. Fractured, no more still white, gleaming. Grains of sand mixing into the soil. Loose teeth, attached to the jaw. Cranial roundness broken up, crushed back to eternal rest. Drips the nectar from the can. Crimson and crimson rejoined as one. That clear silence again.