Prosepoem II (or "Nosferatu")

They had planned it so perfectly, yet it had gone so wrong. The two are dragged into the throne room, beaten, bloodied, and weaponless, their once magnificent armor now rent and torn. They are pushed to their knees, unwilling supplicant to the Dark Lord. He stands over them, his sharp, gloat of fangs looming above them. He drinks deeply from the golden goblet clutched tenderly in his outstretched hand. Red wine? Hardly. The emptied goblet thrown callously aside, the Nightstalker glides towards his prisoners. This close, they see the power in his eyes, the strength bristling in his yet-dead flesh, feel the stink of a thousand thousand lifetimes of hate, despair, and agony. His voice is cold. Halting. “Your plan failed”. He states – matter of faculty. “Do you know why?” The Umbral Creature’s eyes dance with malice. He turns. Gestures. A figure enters the room. The prisoners lethargy suddenly dispelled by renewed strength of anger. “She fought at first” he drawls. “But I eventually… persuaded her to see things differently.” A clawed hand stretches out, casting cloak over shoulder in a grandiose gesture. “Come here”. Inexorably drawn, the red-clad female approaches. She slides in next to him, nimbly extending into the waiting space between his arm and side. The fearsome claw slides down, resting easily on her hip. “She’s mine now” laughs the Lord of Terror. In utter delight at the disgust and contempt of his prisoners, his second claw caresses his captive’s face, moving down to her neck. Lingering, lingering on her neck. “Come. Kiss me.” The thrall leans in, eyes closing seductively, one hand bracing herself upon his back, the other roaming his fearsome chest. It stops over his heart, clutching the fabric of his exquisite regalia as she pierces his haunting features with her lips. The prisoners sit motionless, numbly suppliant at the wrongness of the moment. She draws back, admires her lord’s once-noble features, a smile playing about her face. In the span of an instant, the coyness is gone. In the span of an instant, beautiful features twist with hatred and contempt. The Duskbeast’s eyes widen, too late! Too late! Her hand, is glowing and before he can even express his incredulity, his surprise, the glowing shard of her hand pierces his breast. The light extends, piercing his back, a sword of light in a most unholy of sheathes. She pushes, and the Prince of Darkness falls back, dagger of radiance piercing his heart. “Go to hell” she spits.

Thinktank I (or "Loves")

There are three types of love -- friendly, passionate, and companionate, and they must occur in that order.

Without friendship, one's relationship has no future.
Without passion, one's relationship has no drive.
Without companionship, one's relationship has no legacy.

He who loves before falling in love, loves long after love has faded.