The darkest corners 

Watching as the predator he is 

Hunting without sound or movement stillness his companion 

Inside his head the voices clamour seeking 

Like children to be heard above all others 

Yet the quiet one who shrinks catching his sight 

Or does tonight call for a sporting chase 

Hunt the stronger win through struggle? 

They will all fall where he places them 

Always he is justified saving them from obscurity 

He is angered that his work brings their faces 

Closer 

The ones who are unknown he gave a face, a name 

Never grateful for his help with immortality 

One day he will stop when voices say enough 

Or when glassy eyes stop floating in dreams 

When the compulsion to help them is gone 

Although there is a long way to go for perfection 

And only he is putting himself last 

If they could see they were chosen, special 

Not victims but queens of his passion 

The blood pooling from the latest queen harvested 

He sighs at his sacrifice always his 

Work to be done once more 
Ailsa 

©AilsaCawleyPoetry2016

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