ON THE PROWL

You bastards
With every page I read
Further sickened
Further angered
Further… intrigued
Cold runs down the spine

Have I a right to condemn?
My exile is a chosen one
A sacrosanct one
One where the soul laughs bitterly
Mocks sincerely and abhors passionately

Dark, fiery grin
A smile of ill will
Not merry or sunny
But scarlet and russet
Earthly, thunderously

At all who pass through
Wishing for retribution
Or a certain uncomfortable justice
Or perhaps just consolation
Or more sincerely, a soothing calm

I’m on the prowl on this night
Waiting, unsubtle merriment
Mischievous countenance
Lovely, warming chaos

Bard-like, admitting nothing
Speaking in selfsame dialect of Diablo
Yet detesting it silently

A double-crosser of double-crossers
A card-house builder proceeding to knock his work down
A mind-player, a brain tangler
A heart-breaker, a soul-stealer
A kaleidoscopic whirlwind of likelihood
And that sore impossibility which manifests as a dark hole

But still I’m on the prowl tonight
I’ll dig deeper
Find the secrets, but not yet. Not yet.