He waits outside the polished gates,
Of marbled floors and ivory doors.
He lurks and hides beneath those bricks
Of loosing faith.
His footsteps are well-hidden;
Not a single whip of a dreary air breaks the spell.
His eyes of loose capillaries,
Those sockets of a determined fate.
He laughs, a long, wicked laugh,
Until the grumbling sound of thunder
Fades it away. In awe he stands,
Outside his home, unaware,
Of what he became.
The dreary rain washed his plans away,
And nothing left but a stale bread
To tell his vicious tale.