I blow and swipe,
I slap and knock,
I stay in the background
of your system,
a silent companion
lurking in your blood
inchmeal up to your brain,
your mind, your soul.
I have a plan
of chaos and mayhem
I’ll bring to fruition
without schedules or deadlines.
When the Fates decide,
nothing you can do.
Pray, run, hide.
Openly dissemble,
renounce your faith, cry.
Appeal to riches, honors, rank.
Appeal to status, fame, renown.
I move forward indifferent
to all of that.
Vox populi: disarmed.
I strike, obturate,
hamstring your motion.
Your perennial wish,
your hope: extinct.
Your new state, a microcosm
of an immediate future:
briskly short, ruthless,
inescapable, somber,
empty, still.
Unable to reconcile
with the certainty of
your impermanent nature,
my punitive pledge
delivered at full gallop
induces you into a frenzied
state of despair.
A cul-de-sac.
The void.