click the digital painting to enlarge
He won't or can't encrypt
The toxic thoughts emanating
From his cranium.
He doesn't even try to hide them
Under a bush, oh no,
And attempts to radiate goodness
And cloak the toxins
In a warp of avuncular benevolence,
But the unfeeling insect eyes
Stare through and past you
And the absence of humanity
Burns chinks in your retinae
With real and imagined thought crimes.
This is no personality disorder
Where something broken
Might be fixed
This is an actual defecit
Where the soul is missing
And presumed dead,
Lost somewhere along the way.
Maybe he scuttled his soul
To the bottom of a rumbling green river.
Maybe it was never issued
In the first place.
---o0o---
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