"In the days of the monkeys,
I ate their brains,"
he turned to me and laughed,
that hollow sound
which could never fill our void,
nor turn back time --
not even erase the mockeries
we made of feigned virtue,
   faded glory --
devout adornment of the false gods
   of fate.
No murderer can lay claim
to a moniker graced with deity,
laced with the untruths
   of the human soul,
(a condition born of
pre-ordained expediency).
The human condition
creates a killer --
defines the scope of ******,
   of murderer.

I looked at him --
my voice distant and low,
"In the days of the monkeys,
we may not have been
   the same."