Hidden Knives

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?