28 May 2012
In the carpark, by dusk, A strange man sat, With the wind at his ankles and his troubles beneath his hat,
A pale moon surfaced From beneath a sea of land, and illuminated the figure, whose bent frame began to stand.
The man flexed, then jumped a building, scaling walls with feline ease, His legs were but an animal's, his gift was his disease.
He jumped from tree to treetop: From house to tower to crane, Hoodie tight around his face, But hearing each noise all the same.
The darkness shrouded his prowess, his ability, and his skill, For no-one would see him jump, or run, or go in for the kill
Each night he'd catch a badger, perhaps a fox or cat or dove, For flying often allowed him to choose targets from above.
He held faint memories, in his brain, of child and home and wife, But each night when the moon came up his muscles came to life
He swung from every lamp-post, feeling joy inside his head, But all he really wanted was to hunt people instead
They made for such a longer chase: they huddled round In gangs. they screamed as if they knew their end was a quadruped with fangs
They ran and tried to outsmart him, they hid in a thousand places, But in the end it was always he who was the last To see their faces.
He'd sometimes let the big ones run, to see how far they'd reach, and pick them off before they got to the safety of the street.
He used to be part animal: a human with a curse, But he decided recently that being a man was , in all aspects, worse.
The stale frame of people disappointed his playful mind: He preferred it when the day was dead, and he could act more like his kind.
His parents had concealed him, as a monster and a sin, They carried both a gene, which, whilst recessive, dominated him.
His parents died, and now it was the night who gave him cover; The moonlight was his father and the stars were as his mother.
He crouched, atop a skyscraper, at the highest he could get, A son of night time, born to kill, and dead until sunset.
He sits there still, to my belief, when lights starts to leave the sky, And shines a little flashlight down on whom he chooses to die.
Night's Child • Opuss № I