by Blue

In memoriam.

I can still see
his slimy bog eyes
undressing my soul.

Menacing above me
like a stick insect
inspecting its prey.

Sizing me up
to put me down.
Taking me in
to spit me out.

He made to smile
but a smirk
shot out, instead.

I winced.

He saw that
and was pleased.

They call him "the Reverend"
because he said he was recently,
born again.

And basked in
godly goodliness.

A self-styled saviour for the modern world.

An ad-man's
craftily concocted

Sharp of suit.
Slogan slick.
A snake specialising
in sychophancy.

Polite but pure poison.
Truthless and ruthless.
Quite possibly a killer.

Before I fled,
I saw his spirit.

In blackness.




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