Perfectly Silent but something’s unstill
A motion unseen, only felt by the skilled
A twitch—
A turn
This is a dance
No one feels safe but there’s nothing to hear
The notes are too low
The whines are too high
They don’t know what to fear
Prick up your ears
So many around without a sound
Hear the blood rushing
So soon to be gushing
Muscles are growing taut beneath the skin
The outcome’s undecided
Though only one craves the violence
It’s the way of the world
Soon might will make right
There will be fewer tonight
Once none can still stand it
The bloodlust demands it
Though no one commands it, “begin!”
Perfectly violent till everything’s still
Such a carnage to see, but they’ve had their fill
The fang
The blade
As if in a trance
Some think they know why
Justified with half-lies
The facts don’t satisfy
Nothing satisfies—only the wet on the edge—don’t rationalize
Now again the shifting in the silence
Soon to be a thrashing-tearing-hate-soaked violence
Watch them take such vicious care
Hairs-on-end
Learn to hate the silence
Only whispers, as they watch
Waiting
Waiting.
“
            I cannot wait forever,
            Though neither shall the others.
            We are so many and so silent,
            Each is alone, no two the same.
            …
            Yet lone wolves still eat their fill.
                                                                        ”
Hearing nothing—so soon to feel nothing