Every Breath a Bomb

A Prowler stalks the night;

A shark with human teeth, with evil on his mind.

The city sleeps beneath.

His every thought a bullet, And every breath a bomb…

He knows that violence is the answer.

The blade will be his balm.

A salted, pickled man

Staggers out into the night;

The Prowler waits and bides his time, savouring the air

Before he strikes.

He waits and watches, silently,

This terror of the night,

For the moment that he hears the call;

For when the time is right.

His eager hand is twitching, fingers caress the blade

- The gift –

That he will use to free this man from one more day of self-destructive thoughts

And ruinous habits.

His blade will be a boon,

To satisfy the itch - the deep and throbbing ache

That permeates his soul – that forces him to prey

On those who lack control.

Then the pickled man turns sharply, taking a sudden

Shortcut through the alley;

But the shark is vigilant,

And he does not dilly-dally...

The meal is a quick one,

The work is finished soon…

With cold and vicious steel,

The pickled man meets doom.

In those quiet moments, the predator and prey

Share a lovers' silence,

As one of them fades away...

With his hunger sated,

Our Prowler moves along,

Seeking his next morsel;

The next note in the song.