Cast off into the freezing wind.
Shattered by the frothy bliss.
Watchful as they are in the shadows.
Centered around ruthless gallows.
Beware, they are dark as night.
Old and sinister,
Cold as ice.
Numb as winter’s grip on Hypothermia’s spine.
Dare not back down.
Don’t even turn around.
For then you know their whereabouts.
For then you know
When to die.
A man who knows whence death is a knockin’
is a beast who knows to prepare for nothin’.
And a beast who knows whence life is a leavin’
is a man who knows he prepared for everything.
For night is when he fears the moon.
And the day is when he prepares
For his doom.
For day is when he sets his snares.
And the night is when he prepares
For his despair.
Everyone knows the tale of silver.
With maniacal teeth,
And dastardly plans.
The knowledge of imminent failure,
amongst two sides
of a gambler’s coin.
Gives faith to the man
Who’s concealed truth,
unleashed by the nightmares,
behind the grotesque mask,
of the arabesque mind.
Contained only for a moment.
Behind the curtains of disdain,
beyond the realms of satiation.
Lies supine on a mattress
Of hate, sorrow, loss, and pain
And of that pain,
Which is so great and burdensome,
he hungers for the thrill of the hunt,
the thrill of the chase,
the thrill of the pain.
Which will never be
sedated,
ever again.