He is no mere thief, stealing for gain.
He is the creator of grief, his mission, pain.
His dark X across Monet’s lilly
creates glee filled calamity.
His razors red slash across Venus’ cheek
ruins for no reason but his revel in her blood.

Perhaps, with active conscience, I am self defended.
I may have Jobs own hedge encircling me.

Yet in the center of my life, my warm morning bed,
my arms embracing my love, he leers from inside the closet.
At my desk, where what I think, feel, read, write,
through thoughtful struggle unite,
he sneers from between the lines.
In my grotto in the woods, statued, benched,
I sit, listen to the breeze, the cardinal, the wren,
even there, I hear his snicker.
He squats, his ashen back against a tree,
in pose for me, my old implacable enemy.
I know him well.
I’ve often toyed with Hell
His darkness stains my fort.
How can I, alone, stand?
I pray for Gods promised support.