“It wasn’t fear; it was shame.”
If he were to tell you himself, he has never experienced fear. And if he were to tell you why, he would say that he has never known the feeling, the emotion, the plague. But what he would not be so willing to share would be the impetus behind his lack of fear, his lack of normal human experience, and the obvious answer is simply that he is not human. No educated reader, however, would take this as a good explanation or effective explanation. To which he would coolly reply, “So what.”
“Alright, now remember these … um … questions, and answer them as quick as you can, you hear? Great. Oh-kay, one, What exactly were you trying to accomplish? Two, Who the hell is that guy? Three, What did the little dog play? Oh, shit, no. Not that. Number three, Where or where did the little dog play? Shit! Uh, sorry, yea, I didn’t mean to scare you. Uh, num. ber. FOUR, How long have you know your ‘friend,’ Sarah? Read more
Time as the bridge that separates
two lovers who bate and stagnate,
when they fail to understand what differentiates,
an untrue love from listless hate.
Black on black on black on green,
green like the green of an envious queen
who wears the crown as she drowns in self-loathing
and dares to frown in a gown contrived to belie the power posing.
Pull back the curtain on necessitated self-esteem
or be certain in a sending to the guillotine.
Plebs plead, fleece and pilfer just to get a glimpse of the debs
as they wince at life’s boring routine; it’s obscene,
a lame attack.
Green on green on green on black,
black like the black of a necrotic claque.