Gustav Kilmt vs Dracula

With a hand at her throat
she closes her eyes,

golden vines stream from her feet
and she lifts,

peeled away from memory
inch by inch,

and she dreams of a gate
which reads “Be bold, be bold;”

can no longer hold
such a thing as memory,
which now rhymes with dream;

A dream of a feathered tail,
and a dream of a golden blanket