Morbidly Old Beast

An ill, stray shot into his licentious hide,
Served only to infuriate the beasts tepid depravity,
His true intent, now openly displayed by outward gross.

Irrespective of his deformed malady; he extends; he stretches;
He looks through the ever dwindling eyes of others,
But not beyond his reaches, never to vanquish.

He plots, he plans, he prays to himself,
For answers he will never know.
He sits and teaches, but not beyond his reaches.

He waits for lackadaisical miracles as time whisks by.
Anger with himself causes indignation towards all,
As the demons he spawns - out wait his insignificance.

Find more by Mark Edgemon in the Author Index.

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