starts with his voice,
like a worm in your head,
His whispers,
like Crisp fingernails pulling thread.
He lives in the sounds,
of the rustle in the trees,
And the whaling of the dog,
And the whistle
Of the thistle's in the breeze.
He is the dark in the fog,
And with his promise and his pleas,
Like a Siren on the rocks,
As she sings to the seas.

He will play on your mind,
Like that song you admire,
With ponders of hate,
And suspicion and fire.
And as weeks turn to months,...