He stalks the halls

haunts the twilight room

Pages written by darkened gloom

in those hours

beyond the poles

He hears Curtis’ echoes

of Dead Souls

What ill, that in the distance

dogs do protest

Is there really a resistance

or is it only jest

When fools are given threshers

with which to harvest wheat

They’ll assume they are your better

and bring more beggars to the teat

Retreat into those darkened hills

hiding behind frosted windowsills

Or in some quiet city block

in upper floor shadows stalk

A strange cell

in this body politic

Absent still

called in sick

He’s the new danger in your fold

The man who will not do as told