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Thursday, February 24, 2011

Fallen Angel in the Grips

He looks so much, so sadly, like you and me.

Face to face, I've seen him look so intense, coldly...

So charming at times, but through it all, still full of himself...

His empathy for others, his conscience completely on the shelf...

His eyes were those of my adoptive father as he beat me...

Or the fellow who murdered my roommate in seventy-three...

Or the alcoholic in his drunken rage, affected beyond care...

The cocaine addict i knew, looked like love but nothing there...

The man who beat my friend until she was blue and black

Bruises dealt in anger, holding nothing back, the psychopath

Doing mean things beyond what others would ever do...

Hurtful things, mingled with cruelty, mind-boggling to me and you...

What makes him, he? To torture, maim, or hurt you and me...

What lies behind the eyes of this monster that we see...

We can love him, hate him, lock him behind bars eternally...

One of life's greatest mysteries remains: what makes him, he?

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