You look, but do not see. In your desire,
You miss the depth of distance in my face.
My form you unabashedly admire --
Black leather fitted tightly, free of lace.
You follow close behind me, keeping pace,
Not knowing that your sentiments I lack --
Not knowing I would place you on the rack,
And bring to light your silent, inner drives.
The darkness deepens; you should hurry back --
For in my sleeves I carry hidden knives.
Weird whispers in an alleyway inspire.
You reach with hypothetical embrace,
A madman's shadow, seeking to acquire;
But in my hand I hold a can of mace --
For pretty words are fair and fit to chase,
Yet words alone are empty, cold, and slack --
And so I tense, and wait for the attack.
Through watchful solitude each soul survives,
But in my mental armor is a crack;
So in my sleeves I carry hidden knives.
Perhaps you deal in danger -- death for hire --
To see my spirit gone without a trace;
Or do you sense the hidden gypsy-fire
That makes my heartbeat pulse and pound and race?
Perhaps your soul is full of peace and grace,
An angel off the pure and beaten track.
Perhaps I am your prey -- a luscious snack --
The hunted meat defeated, though it strives,
That you would carve to pieces for your sack --
Perhaps you also carry hidden knives.
So close -- I hear a train's resounding clack,
And see thick darkness looming from its stack
Like smoky words that hint at secret lives,
And speak of something just beyond the black --
Would we be safe without these hidden knives?