The Beast of Man, The Man of Beast

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.