fists of rage staged for effect.
A check of emotions shows the flow of vile venom,
dirt stained denim and a shirt torn and dirty.
A forehead receding, pleading
to remain, to cover a brain so twisted,
this two fisted bastard. Hard times
were never as bad as the evil that lurks
in an ill-used heart. Torn apart at the seams,
dreams shattered and a battered companion
paying the price for a slice of security.
Every impurity imagined drained like
a lifeless corpse. Death would be welcomed
for this regenerated degenerate.
A scowl run afoul of a face unfamiliar,
smiles have vacated it for quite a while.
Neither sinew nor gray matter flatter this man.
A case that humanity has rejected.
Save the women and children.
The monster’s arrival is expected.
© Walter J Wojtanik, 2014