I feel like I want to
trace with Angels, be
given the color by demons,
all so I can view; in retrospect
of course, just what's unfolding
before my eyes, produced
by a moving hand, holding both
tragic wand, and elegant scepter.

A savage ache in my wrists,
in my fingers escalates,
cascading pain, it's like biting
one's lips whilst *******.
The ****** approach of a spinster,
finding the sinister, or beautiful
images racing by in blurry flurries.
A fictional figurine encased
in a snow globe no one
shakes anymore.
A conversation piece, small talk
for the sake of ending the
silence he so viciously clings to.

We all would, if we too saw
the threads he grasps from
glares, staring eyes to him,
they're as visible as your
discomfort with the moment.
And the movement of you feet
tip him off to another delightful
treat, but you'll know nothing
of the attention you've garnered
he's far smarter than that.
How else is he to view you
in your natural habitat, only seen
when your movements, your actions
are considered voluntary, deliberate.
If he clued you in to when you
alerted him to watch, the
partisan dance couldn't
begin.

He's cutting fresh imprints
of you for later.
Some he'll make sure you know of,
others, he'll leave you beyond
wondering.
You shouldn't show him curiosity,
lest the moments of what,
and, or when torture you
well into the night.

Whimsy!?
Sure,
If you must place a condescending
tone to something you don't know,
but clearly want to.
Maybe it's easier to act as though
it doesn't matter.
He knows you'll be back, not now,
possibly never, but when he's
there, your thoughts are his too.