Horror is lurking behind every moment of darkness, Seeming to be human, we cannot distinguish you from Grendel. We see no Beowulfs coming to rip off your arms that aid you well. When every closed door warns us, Every stare seems to map our bodies, Every vehicle appears to follow us, Every touch seems to warn us, You, cultured and well behaved, You are the light of the day, You are the Lord of the people, Who metamorphose into damned dangers At the end of the day. Your venomous fangs go in search of Prey, You wait in the darkness with twinkling eyes, Admiring the power of your hands, That can open up hearts, And show the uncultured your worth. After every hunting, the sycophants who surround you, Kiss your hands and touch your feet. They wash your dirt and make your bed. They cure your sickness by gifting you scepters. Making you invisible, they uproot every Beowulfs to ensure your reign. Thus you flourish, never to die but to hunt and haunt. And behind your house, we see a pile of d
Expressions penned with feathery Excalibur!