by Nick Gisburne
Into the poisonous shadows of dusk
Pulled by a lingering tangle of smoke
Breathing the air for its delicate musk
Wrapped in the fathomless folds of a cloak
Slithers the whispering man
Here, in the alleys of danger and lust
Worthy and worthless exult in their sin
Walking in twilight, they do what they must
Pledging the promise of shivering skin
Faltering goddesses, painting their pain
Decadent flowers with treacherous lives
Panthers, who prowl in a wretched domain
Offer their flesh as the stranger arrives
Odious appetites, founded in fear
Longing to slake an unquenchable thirst
Madness, obsession, compelling and clear
Taking his silver, the victim is cursed
Heady, the sensual scent of her soul
Binds him with lechery, lured to her bed
Silent, he feeds her this crumb of control
Into his sinister scheme she is led
Smiling, she clumsily steps from the dress
Seeking approval of all that she is
Practised in pleasure, she kneels to confess
Lifting her eyes, though she does not see his
This he has hungered for, this he demands
This, from her body, her passion, her life
Slave to a pain only he understands
Slowly his fingers encircle the knife
Deep in the fathomless folds of the cloak
Forged from the elements evil has made
Born to extinguish a life with a stroke
Slender and deadly, the murdering blade
Spellbound, she watches it glint in the light
Clutches cold hands to the curve of her throat
And, through the bitterest depths of the night
Screams with a ragged and desolate note
Crippled with terror, she finds no release
Fiendish depravity darkens the door
Wielding the weapon, the promise of peace
Gently, he lowers the knife to the floor
“Kill me.” He whispers it. “Kill me,” he pleads
“Kill me.” As subtle as shadows and smoke
Life is a punishment, death what he needs
Blessed release from the shame of the cloak
Twisting the head of an intricate clasp
Heavy, the cloth at his shoulders pulls free
Soundlessly falling, released from his grasp
Burning her sight with the truth of his plea
Torments and sicknesses ravage his form
Ghoulish deformities, festering sores
Lesions and blisters, a virulent swarm
Burst from the sepsis infecting his pores
Pulled from his abdomen, cut and re-sewn
Skin strips, unpeeling, hang, tattered and raw
Clinging to cancerous muscle and bone
Only a ruin remains of his jaw
Tumours and ulcers bring pain to each limb
Crooked, misshapen, he struggles to stand
Cruel barbarities, fearful and grim
Miseries dealt by a deity’s hand
Ripped from their place on the whisperer’s back
Angel wings, symbols of heavenly might
Torn from their sockets, bright feathers burned black
Staining his cloak with the darkness of night
Wearing it banishes some of the pain
Now, he is broken, his shame is complete
Fallen from grace, from that radiant plane
Destined to walk every infamous street
“Kill me.” He yearns for it. “Kill me,” he begs
Consciousness fails her, expecting to die
Bending the tortured remains of his legs
Seizing the weapon, he whispers a sigh
Death is a blessing he cannot create
Only a sinner may sever his life
Only with mercy, not anger or hate
Kindness conferred with the cut of a knife
Straining, he struggles to fasten the cloak
Quickly, its power brings ease to his pain
Leaving the girl and the whispers he spoke
Always, forever, he searches again
Into the poisonous shadows of dusk
Pulled by a lingering tangle of smoke
Breathing the air for its delicate musk
Wrapped in the fathomless folds of a cloak
Slithers the whispering man
