The Last Recluse

Murder By Proxy

5-30-22

The cold, rubbing apprehension.
A simple softness, the misuse of touch.
The struggle of a people with nothing
         to fight for
and no say in their abuse.
When irony has nowhere to go,
how far do you go
to give it a home?
And when is it not a place of your own?

This tension is my alibi.
I am not alone.

Fuck your feeling for fucking my concern.
These are the facts you don't wish to learn.
Pity on your "favors'; a pox on your house.
Hell is too nice a place
         for you to burn.
You can spit in my face in disgust
for not leaving well enough alone
but "well enough" isn't good enough
when murdering by proxy is your choice.

This tension is my alibi.
I am not alone.
Retribution comes in many sizes
and mine is all of the above.