Game To Play
Sweet night has stricken the land
And the awkward moon has finally shown her true form.
The shadows of winter trees
And promised spring
Cast themselves eerily across the frozen grasses.
The only thing that keeps
The watching man
From frosting like a cake
Is the excitement
That makes his palms sweaty
And his body at the ready.
He is the master of disguise,
So much, in fact, that he
Puts the wild animals to shame.
His hungry eyes are much faster
Than any lion could ever dare to try,
And his stealthy demeanor
Far surpasses that of a scuttling mouse.
Presently, he is behind the car
In her driveway,
Just as if he were a normal man
Walking in at midday.
She is unaware…
His knowledge of her is beyond
Her knowledge of herself.
He sings her name
As if it were a hymn to God.
He strokes her braid,
The one in the mailbox
That was to be sent in donation.
The red earring she lost
On the crowded sidewalk yesterday
Now takes refuge in his own ear,
And the papers she crumbled in frustration
Are tacked to his grimy walls.
He even has a picture of her
That he stole from her bedroom windowsill.
He is not particularly fond
Of the others within
As they smile and hold her lovingly,
But it’s alright: she is still center stage.
Yes, she is where he needs her to be, and
Though he knows her all too well,
She is oblivious to such ludicrous behavior,
And he remains as a tree
In the forest across the road.
But now the time is all too perfect,
And the predator cannot resist his prey any longer.
The moon is urging him to take action,
Even lighting the straight path
So he will make haste.
But before he strikes, however,
The looping question
Makes another round in his filthy mind:
Once he finally has her, what shall he do with her?
She will be helpless, no doubt,
As she is but a teen, and he is a man,
Older, muscular, free…powerful.
If he is to pursue his criminal intentions,
What exactly should they be?
Hell-bent is he that he will have his way,
Because after all, she is so lovely and fair
And no one has harvested her crops,
But when that event comes to pass,
Will he leave nothing but a naked body,
Or shall he take her with him
So that he may have his precious catch always?
If he kills her, there is always evidence,
If he steals her, she might escape.
He shakes back his black hair and
Wipes his hands on his coat.
After all, he is a clean man.
If she didn’t know any better,
He was merely a lost passerby.
But he isn’t that at all: he has resided there for quite some time.
He decides that his thoughts must be thrown aside:
He will burn that bridge when he has fully crossed it.
The unsuspecting maiden comes,
Opening the white tin door at 9:30
To cross the icy pebbles with her buckets
Of food and water for her pets.
He smiles, exposing flawless pearls,
At the sight of her in black leggings and work boots,
With a pull-over sweater
And beautiful short hair
That flutters with the winter night’s breezes:
She looks comfortable, and the hard work she does
Causes his breathing to shallow with intensity.
Now is truly the time.
He creeps up silently over the driveway,
Past the sleeping apple tree,
And across the sparse lawn,
A feat that was mastered through practice.
She takes no notice of him,
Continuing on her way and sings “My Immortal”.
Oh how her somber innocence provokes him so!
The wait is too murky and
He runs now with bent knees,
So as to preserve some surprise for his reward.
Small, wispy clouds fill the nearby sky
As he breathes heavier and heavier
And his long black coattails lag behind in their wearer’s swiftness.
At long last, he is upon her.
His fingers clasp greedily upon her body,
Pale with winter’s bite.
Desperation to get away from this unknown force
Is a force all on its own for her.
But yet again, he is a man, and she is a girl.
With one hand to shelter her silent screams
And the other to hold her callused hands,
He drags her further and further from the white tin door,
Into the woods, into the darkness,
And eventually, into his,
Nay, THEIR home.
The child is both faint and flushed,
But nothing can be done,
Because nothing was witnessed.
He threatens for her silence and removes his hands
So that they may be put to their better use.
His lips attack hers,
Traveling to the neck where her vocal chords reside within,
Once filled with song, now silenced with fear.
His time has come,
And no one shall deny him
The seeds he will sow.
He likes to play, so
She is the pawn,
But he let her go,
And you are their spawn…