Sometimes I’m the hunter,
Other times, I’m the hunted,
They stroll past me on the crowded street, among the vexatious mob,
Of beggars and business men and children of the condemned,
From their delusive depths, expressed from many of their human drawbacks,
This crowd is not of physical flesh.
Their volatile consciences, vanishing in the spicy summer,
Phantoms of the near future,
Day by day, mutely, still.
The finest minds of my era,
An icon of spite and disgust, made evident.
The treasure, she hides in chambers, shielded behind,
Their dreary eyes, their kaleidoscopic visions,
But they can never see me,
I resemble someone who is,