Here is a monster
That loathed to join the others
In a quartet
Here is a monster
Who hunts, scares, kills on its own
Sits on its throne
He draws people in
With his unassuming smile
Not too-perfect face
Warfare, not his style
But the ambush in the dark
It hurts all the same
I called his name, and
Made a promise not like Simone
At night, he smashes
And releases bombs
Bombs of stink, the type I hate
He can do all this
Yet maintain a straight face
Get straight A’s at school—in Math
Have friends, have lovers
My envy rivalled
Even Serra. For no-one
Notices, not one
Chiding, not one scold
I have no respect for him
Not like Annie, no
But I drew him in
Black and white. So people see
Hold him to the light.
YOU ARE READING
Corridor of Portraits
PoetryA corridor, its walls covered with portraits, stretches ahead of you. Some areas are lit up artistically, others frighteningly dark. Indecision grips you for a moment, but you must go on. You came here for answers, and you will get them. (A/N: Curr...
