Slinking silently and undetected,
Passion Thief – a cruel night-terror.
Unaware, The Watch unaffected,
Complacency is my first great error.
Creeping within rhythmic chambers,
Putting to sleep Pride and Preservation:
He poisoned their crimson cup
With controlled relish devoid of jubilation.
Harvesting the organs from a corpse;
Dead is the Insight I once prized.
The Thief proud of his income tonight,
Content at a heart lobotomized.
No doors remain locked,
Pillaging into the night.
Killing swiftly a groggy and shocked
Sense of What-is-Wrong-and-What-is-Right.
Vanishing down another level,
Security is void in the maze.
Blood spews from a cut throat:
For a second in death, Altruism delays.
Passion is there, deep in slumber:
The Thief has one more soul
For his evil to plunder.
Passion is there, body asunder.
In the morning, Rationale unaffected,
Routine and Perspective unharmed,
I am robotic, precise, nothing detected,
With no convenient reason to be alarmed.
Based in York and new to the poetry scene, Philip James Smith is finding his feet:
Unapologetically dark and unashamedly raw, his muse is an inward and insatiable Gothic romance.
Personal Heroes: William Blake and Heathcliff.
