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Noir Deco “Are Monsters Real”

 

 

 

 

“He’s a monster!” cried the little girl
As she applied the final touches to her latest grim creation
He wasn’t, of course
Indeed, the monster in question was almost implausibly placid by nature
The work of Machiavellian creator
A strategist by all accounts
Admitted such herself
If only she could turn the mirror back upon herself
Then she would see the monster of her own denomination
This was no abomination
Straining at the leash
Simply a pastiche of every preface dated masterpiece
Calling him a narcissist was rich even for she
For indeed it was he who had been victim of her narcissistic tendency
If only she could see the strain of monster she’d created
Then maybe she would not have been so keen to name and shame it
Play the part of judge and jury
Overruling plea
Execution less than cute
To make a good man destitute
All about collected dues
Even when she knew she’d left him nothing left to lose
“He’s a monster!” cried the monster
Furthering the ruse
Curdling the version of events she so acerbically construed
Placing tumour in the rumour mill
Retreating then to view her kill
One more lunge should break his will
Twist his guts and make them spill
Scoop them up and take her fill
Then play the field and make another monster
Find another little boy to sponsor, woe betide, divide and conquer
Living by an honour code dishonoured by corroded nodes
If only she could contraflow
Then every road would need not lead to nowhere
“He’s a monster!” cried the little girl
“A beast within the lair”
He wasn’t, of course
The bastard sword was bled of her own doctrinaire
The little boy, no longer scared each time he passed a mirror
Climbed inside his monster suit, if only to appease her need to feel aggrieved for all that she perceived him to have put her through
Deep down, she knew that he had loved her truly and sincerely
Such had never one time been stressed any less than clearly
Even now, he wished the very best for she
In quest to finally complete her bestiary
And it would be a dream come true to see her in the fullest bloom
Howbeit, not so keen to see the monster in his rear-view
As he felt it best remembering the splendour of commute

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

 

 

 

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