Meeting a Sociopath

The man –

This fog, this wrath, obscure and tamable in his cage,
Billows a sanity-mask, veiling his inner rage.

Wandering within his decrepit-tomb –
(anxious of his past, ill-deeds), pondering his fated doom.  


His grave…

His past conducts, obscure, hovering as a shadowless entity beneath a brilliant moon,
Drifting conscienceless before a set of blinding, heavenly eyes that try with this demon to attune…  

Superficially receptive, and callously distant,
This fog dissipates, burrowing back beneath the earth…


Her beauty,

The innocence, of this risen crimson-lipped-sun
Uprooting him back from his grave,

His icy hands – too untrusty to grasp –
Affright, she escapes, setting beneath the horizon into the distant twilight.


A storm,

This inner rage bloats his corpse, billowing vaporous curses from beneath the entombing clay,
This man now wants to confess to the world he is wrathful at heaven’s day.