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in the waking rays of night
you look across
and see a man who
while not a man
certainly carries the skin of one.
in his pocket,
you feel he collects jackets;
cold iron, for his bare knuckles;
and a thousand hands to hold the death
he is contracted to drag behind him.
you do not see it
but it looms
while he looks through horizons to reach
a great prize; unseen, untouched;
for his waiting lips
ready to bite;
not devoid of merit.
a distinct hum of chaos erupts from this ungodly beast.
when he pushes back, a storm of ash wells up above our heads.
The monster wrenches and wrestles within.
The hellish tom cat is
more like a hound
chained to its own underworld
with a tragic lack of stealth and subtly.
Slow and steady steps bring him closer
and closer he comes to you.
Blue meets red
and the whole of the worlds stop turning.
-Desdemona the Slave Poet, 15 AA
