Wicked is the comfortable fool
The unsuspecting man in the dime moonlight, who’s skin and heart are numb, unaware of the chilling air
He never saw the frozen dagger coming
Nor did he heard the shadowy footsteps
But his eyes met those grey ones
They stare at him full of hatred and rage
All while the dagger pierced that which once had a beat
He smiled at her, not mockingly, not right now, he’ll hate to utter such words but missing her had become his burden
“Are you satisfied?”
“Not until I make you cry…”
And so is their dance macabre, eternal, never ending, and full of unspoken whispers only they can hear














