Dead of the Night
This very night for him is the friendliest
For shadowy darkness is at its most potent,
With no sound apart from that of total silence
And the air is thick with the sense of suspense.
Within his own dwelling he walks in the dark,
His every step hushed in stealthily walk
To evade obscure shadows that lies all about
In a gloom that’s as black as the purpose he’s bound.
—Steel toes that go, “Click, clack, ”
Is the Grim Reaper’s in the dark.
Upon each flight of stairs are the same cautious steps,
A predator sly on a hunting tread;
Grim masks the face that is fraught of emotions,
Though only held back by his serious intention.
The clandestine footfalls stop by the door
Of the Master’s chamber, to see therein lies in store
What he expected: the wife sleeping on the bed
And a person that comes twilight soon shall be dead.
—the hammer pulled back, “Click, clack, ”
Is the knell of death in the dark.
The night, of a sudden, does not want to be friendly,
The shadowy darkness can only be deadly,
With thunders that ripped straight through the silence
And his sanity shattered in a second of weakness.
Within his own chamber, he sits in the dark,
Staring at two corpses whose last stare was blank;
With deliberate gentleness his last act was subtle,
He closed his eyes and bit on the barrel.