Savage cruelty
his feverish delight
the stomping grounds of his soul.
'Predatory delight;'
he spends his nights
spinning lurid webs with droll
He looks for the weak,
afflicted
naive
he makes them
his own little playthings
'There is no life in him;'
He's cold
he's dead,
no warmth
no empathy,
no conscience
Under his masks
He's small
methodical
an old lizard
slow-moving
With a prehensile tail
long extensible tongue,
protruding eyes that rotate independently,
to not miss a thing
to stalk everything
the lost
the miserable
the hurting
No pain, No gain
No pain, No gain
If he can't inflict pain
For him there's no gain
