Harvest

Trembling fingers, electric to the sensation of my ambition,

Drowning in my their essence, a filthy poison they drink each evening,

They beg, but I find no reason to quit. Why should I when the taste is so sweet?

Their nectar is like no other, a wine of guilty pleasure that I endure like an orgasm,

My eyes, lost in the stoic, dull glance, never phase from their sorrow, rather grasp their pity to fortify who I am.

I am neither man or beast, but something inbetween, a perfected holocaust to the sanity of everyone’s nightmares; however, they aren’t nightmares but reality in the presence of nightmare’s wish,

Scream for me that serenade of dread. I cling to it like a broken promise seen in lover’s shattered eyes,

It’s not a scream, rather a symphony of what they should hear, those seeking the skeptical verse from torn away eyes. This is not fiction, rather a snuff of what you fear most....your own delusional downfall,

I’m a shadow in your darkness; a glance in your window; a footstep moving nonchalantly to break the foundation of security,

Do not fear me, for my attack will be swift and just. I rather not bring noise to myself...

The Harvester of Souls......