Who would call home the most unsavory of
Unknowns
Who would dress himself as the devil
And taunt with crimson fingertip, the faint of heart
And low
Who would reap the punishment of Karma
And her black dress, watch her saunter over from the bar
To his table, take a kiss, and never speak a word
Of hope
Who would compose his finest eulogy, for the still-living
And smile at their still life, whose measures crafted
Elaborate traps, baited with a feast fit for kings and sociopaths
Laden with the gravest of intentions, a harvest for the transparent
The ghosts
Who would swallow whole, if they could taste at all
The delicacies of their preceding fall, and curl come-hither fingers
To the host of the ball, whose flesh entices the far
From home
They would dress him in translucence, impress upon him
Nothing, lest the time for feasting end, before he's picked clean
Their bones
He, who quarrels with his demons at nightfall, yet serves them again
Come dawn.
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