The Man In The Mask
A bullet was fired; a trigger way pulled,
A man in a mask did all that he could,
To disturb the peace, the smiles and the harmony
The harmony that habitually gnawed at his heart and pricked him,
To remove all serenity, to eliminate the good.
Blood painted the gravel, yelps filled the air
Panic ran like a virus, scattered everywhere.
More bullets followed, more blood, more death.
Sirens blared and blinded as ambulances wheeled away.
Tears and sorrow for the souls that parted.
The 'monster' as he was so passionately christened,
returned to his den.
Shabby floors and dark walls- grime that reminded him of his own home
That little shed that wove his childhood into a web so complex
That it led him into the unescapable whirlpool of his present.
He looked out through the only window there was in his den,
To look at the sky that symbolized freedom to him,
The freedom for which he was prepared to die.
What is this freedom he so strenuously seeks?
No one with stethoscopes or handcuffs would ever understand
No one would know what his freedom means to him.
Lying down on a frayed choir mattress covered by torn sheets
That had aged same as his vengeance
He stares determinately at the drifting clouds,
Wishing he’d be one of them.
Lament flooded him thoroughly like a glass filled up to the brim with dense wine,
As his thoughts took on a retrospective hue.
On how his life had gone bitter like the sting of a formidable scorpion.
Not that he felt guilt. Do not be mistaken,
For, there was not even an ounce of that emotion in him.
Formidable he would become, over and over till the freedom would be won.
For once, it bothered him-how he felt nothing.
Heartless and stoic; with not an inch of remorse to spare.
Through the years as the delicate layers of humanity had been brutally peeled away,
Away from his heart, left to wither and shrivel.
Until all that was left was a poor excuse for a heart
That was as cold as stone.
Those things gave him comfort, they did.
The way his arm would recoil on impact from pulling the trigger.
The red in the blood that marked victory,
The shrill in the aftermath of a bomb blast.
The way the noise of that moment made his ears quiver.
Each life he took was a unit lesser- the burden on this earth.
For, they were the oppressors.
That word stirred rage within him.
That momentary glimpse of anything human left in him, vanished with the wind.
Up and about once again in his dark dingy den,
Convinced that his justification would have no buyers,
He put on his mask and prepared himself yet again.
Arms and ammunition- a part of his attire.
He prayed for a moment; believe me, he did.
Perhaps to something that he viewed to be bigger than his being.
In the dark of the night with no law in sight,
He took his stance at vantage point.
He took one look at the stars in the sky
As he smoked one last joint.
A bullet was fired; a trigger way pulled,
A man in a mask did all that he could,
To disturb the peace, the smiles and the harmony
The harmony that habitually gnawed at his heart and pricked him,
To remove all serenity, to eliminate the good.
~Kiera~
