Under the cover of night,
A savagery blossoms in everyone,
Thriving in the privacy of darkened corners
And behind locked doors.
Inhibitions are lost,
And veils removed,
And the arching,
Wild things emerge.
There is one exception,
A predator that sinks into the shadows
One who calculates every movement,
How to create the perfect night.
As the moon inches closer to the horizon,
And the purple of the dawn
Begins to rise,
The predator manipulates her prey into the necessary positions,
Guiding them into the right movements,
To say the right things,
For following her rules.
“Sometimes I wish that I were like the other
Animaux de noir
So that I could release myself,
Instead of cinch
And draw in
But meticulousness is all I know
And to design
Does not keep one warm.
I must plot every second,
And list the rules for my prey.
Take away their sight
And once they know the isolation of the sensation of touch
They may earn them back,
One by one,
Until they can give me a definitive answer.
What is it that you want?
What do you need the most?
What do you want to do first?
And what will you do last?
They plead to give me what I already knew they would give,
To do the things that all before them have done,
Because they are puppets,
They’re all ****** to be the same,
Night after night,
Just as meticulous.”